


The Act of Gratitude

by Amuscaria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-12-31 18:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12138315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuscaria/pseuds/Amuscaria
Summary: Sansa tries to show Sandor her gratitude, but he somehow seems to misunderstand her intentions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have tried to stay faithful to the book canon, I just decided to go with the general timeline of the TV series, not the books. Therefore, at this point almost 18 years have passed since the Robert’s Rebellion, so everybody is two years older than in the books. I have also shortened the age difference between Robb and Sansa, so that Sansa is now 16. 
> 
> I am not a native English speaker and because I never have a chance to actually communicate in English, I started writing this to practise. It’s my first and unbetaed writing attempt in a foreign language, so I am very sorry for all the mistakes. 
> 
> Thanks a lot to Maroucia for her encouragement, without which I wouldn't have dared to post this.

Sansa could not find sleep again and she instead lay in her bed tossing and turning and wondering what she should do. The Hound had saved her. Again. People had thrown filth at Sansa and tried to pull her off her horse and Clegane had saved her. Sansa still hated to think about it. She wanted to sleep, or read and lose herself in a new captivating story about brave knights, she didn’t want to remember the man with the garlicky breath. But she had to. The Hound had saved her so many times that she now truly owned him her life and yet she did her best to avoid him. What could she possibly say to him? He was nothing like her protector was supposed to be. He was no knight. He had the ugliest face she had ever seen, he was overly muscular, almost seven feet tall and he was so, so angry. The anger was the worst thing about him and just seeing it blazing in his eyes always made Sansa tremble. She was scared of her own protector and it shamed her greatly.

Septa Mordane used to always stress the importance of gratitude and courtesy. The Hound hated courtesy, he even called Sansa a chirping bird and likened himself to a dog. But what was it the kennelmaster used to say about training dogs? Rewards for good conduct are far more effective than any punishment for bad behaviour. Of course Sansa remembered it, she had wanted her Lady to be the most well-mannered direwolf of all time. Rewards are more than punishment. Nobody had ever been good to the Hound, no wonder he was always so angry. Lannisters only ever offered him money and titles, which didn’t interest him in the slightest. It was no reward for the man like Clegane. Surely Sansa could do better than that. She had to find a way to show the Hound how grateful she was. He was no knight after all, he could easily stop helping her altogether. And yet he didn’t want her thanks, after the Hand’s Tourney he had an excess of money and he cared only for wine and killing. Sansa had to say or give him something special, something that would truly touch him. But the Kingsguard had everything, while the king’s prisoner had nothing at all.

Well, it wasn’t entirely true. She had her beauty and he had none, but there was no way of giving him that. She also had a loving family, which she couldn’t very well share, either. The Hound wouldn’t care for a vague promise of Robb’s favour. The song. She could give him a song, but he only taunted her for her love of songs. He would laugh at her if she used any of the beautiful words from songs, or gave him a flower, or a kiss as a token of her gratitude. 

And that was good, because Sansa really wouldn’t want to kiss his ruined lips or leathery skin. Perhaps she could give him an ointment for his skin? No, no, he would get angry at the mere mention of his scars. Of course he would. The kiss, though? Would he really hate a kiss? It was a customary reward from a lady to her rescuer after all. Dozens of stories described the beauty of this noble reward. Actually, such kiss appeared in almost all Sansa’s favourite stories and even Dontos had proven that it was the best reward of all. The Hound got perhaps kissed by many women of ill repute, but Sansa couldn’t imagine any woman ever giving him a kiss willingly. He knew the stories, he knew them well. Surely he would recognize the meaning of such gesture?

The more Sansa thought about it, the more she considered it a great plan. It would be revolting to kiss the Hound, but that made the gesture even more powerful and symbolic. She, the beautiful maiden, would willingly overlook all his hideousness in order to show him her gratitude. She would look him straight in the eyes and kiss him on his half-burnt lips. Sansa shivered at the thought. Would his mouth smell too awfully? Of course, it would, she remembered the foul odour emanating from his mouth all too well. But she would kiss him anyway. People always said that Sansa had a noble heart and here it was. She was willing to show the greatest kindness to a disfigured man. She couldn’t help but be slightly impressed by her own selflessness. Tomorrow she would find Clegane and be done with it as quickly as possible. The Hound would then never want to stop protecting such a generous lady.

 

Sandor needed to drink. And kill someone. He especially needed to kill someone. He even had one or two favourites who would serve him well for this purpose. Sandor glanced over to the yellow-haired cunt. Joffrey once again stepped closer to his Kingsguard, as if starving commoners could suddenly start jumping out of his table and Sandor was the only one who could save him. Fucking coward. Both of them were fucking cowards. Joffrey for ordering others to hurt innocent people, Sandor for fulfilling such orders. Bugger it all, he was restless. He needed a bit of exercise. Like gutting someone. Or chopping someone’s head off. Or gutting someone and then chopping their head off. 

For several days Joffrey didn’t want to be parted from Sandor at all, as he was too scared of every sound. Joffrey didn’t even have a bruise and he was shitting his breeches anyway. Oh, how pretty his head would look on a spike upon the battlements, how the crowds would finally cheer to see their king! The little bird had been almost raped and killed because of that little shit. Why hadn’t Joff send his men to protect Sansa? She was so terrified. The mob tried to pull her from her horse and those filthy commoners even threw stones at her. At her, at Sansa, who was the kindest person in the whole fucking city. She had shown kindness even to Sandor. Now there was a gash on Sansa’s scalp and probably countless bruises on her body, too. And perhaps he had bruised her, too. She hadn’t complained, but she was always too polite for her own good. He should have been gentler. He always did everything wrong when it came to her. He spoke to her thousand times when daydreaming, he always knew the right words and even made her smile. And when she appeared in front of him for real, he fucked everything up.

When Joffrey finally released Sandor, the man had to drink himself to sleep again. He still wanted to gut someone, but it was too late at night and he didn’t. The new day came sooner than Sandor would have liked and he wasn’t drunk enough to keep sleeping in the daylight. He was once again woken up by a nightmare about raped and murdered Sansa. He would never have believed that there could be a worse dream than Gregor burning his skin off, but apparently the little bird could be even scarier than Sandor’s beloved brother. How was she doing? Could she sleep? She wasn’t leaving her room anymore, because she felt unwell. What did it mean? What if she had more injuries than Sandor knew about? Internal injuries were the worst sort, slow and painful killer. Or an infection. She was such a delicate little thing, she could easily get an infection.

Sandor still had an hour until his shift started and he decided to use this time to ask after the girl’s health. He had saved her. There was nothing wrong with asking about her wellbeing. It was expected, wasn’t it? Or perhaps not. Perhaps he was just a pathetic old dog, lying even to himself. He thought about it for a moment as he was climbing the stairs. Alright, he didn’t know exactly why he had to see the little bird, but it was completely irrelevant. He was quite sure he wouldn’t like his reasons anyway. 

Wait, was that the handmaid? What the fuck was she doing here?

“Hey, you there! How is she?” he barked at the handmaid. 

The woman flinched and looked at him with disgust. “Who?” 

“Lady Sansa. How is she?” 

“And what’s that to you?” the woman pouted.

Seven hells, how Sandor hated this one. She looked like an expensive whore and surprise, surprise, she was a Lannister’s whore. She knew nothing about the needs of a highborn lady and only put Sansa into more needless danger. Sandor had long suspected that the Imp had eyes for Sansa. Still, having his own whore spy on the girl he wanted, that was a new low even for a Lannister. Sure, Sandor could easily understand the Imp’s thinking. Joffrey could set Sansa aside and give her to someone else. Someone like his perverse little uncle. And the Imp would destroy yet another innocent wife. Just like Gregor, only smaller, richer and smarter. Did everybody in this fucking castle need to have their head put on a spike?

This one did.

“I’m the Kingsguard,” Sandor snarled. “Answer me, or else I’ll make you.”

“She is fine. Still shaken.”

“What about her injuries?”

“Nothing serious.”

“Are you sure?” Sandor eyed her suspiciously. “Weren’t you just going for a maester?”

“No.”

“So what the fuck are you doing here? And who is with the girl now anyway?”

The woman pursed her lips. “No one, she is sleeping. I am just… walking. She had milk of the poppy late at night, she doesn’t need me now.”

Seven hells, this vapid whore sure had to be good at sucking the Imp’s deformed cock, because she was definitely not good for anything else. “You haven’t spoken with her yet?”

“No, she is sleeping.”

“And have you checked her condition at all?”

“No, I’m not her wet-nurse,” the whore retorted. “And if she died in her sleep, that’s the best for her in this place anyway.”

That did it. Sandor’s left hand closed around the woman’s throat and finally, there was a healthy portion of fear in her eyes. “You will check her condition now, do you understand?” He inhaled through his clenched teeth. “She hasn’t left her room for days! She wouldn’t risk displeasing the king, if it wasn’t serious.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the King?” the whore dared to ask. 

“I am right where I am supposed to be. But you are supposed to take care of Lady Sansa’s wellbeing, not sneak around the corridors who knows where!”

“I’m not sneaking!”

“There is increased security in the whole castle, but you’ve left her doors unbarred, haven’t you? I wonder what the Queen will have to say about that!”

“I don’t know why they are so interested all of the sudden!” the whore whined.

“Not your place to know. Return to the girl’s room and check her condition.” Sandor released her. “Now!”

The woman gave him a disdainful look, but she had enough sense to obey him without questioning his motives. Sandor walked her to the girl’s room and waited outside. This was unbelievable. The guards hadn’t had enough sleep since the riot and security had been increased in the whole Red Keep. And yet there was still no one to guard the front doors of the little bird’s chambers. Sansa was once again left completely alone and in a vulnerable state. She had almost been killed and it changed nothing. Sandor had long been displeased with the lack of the girl’s protection and he had often tried to keep an eye on her, but it wasn’t enough. Especially since the girl had a peculiar penchant for lonely walks and it scared Sandor. Well, not scared precisely, of course. What did he care for her, anyway? It just didn’t sit well with him. Hopefully, the riot had taught the girl how foolish it was to walk anywhere alone.

The handmaid came out of Sansa’s chambers pouting even more than before. It made her look like a duck. 

“She is fine. She woke up already and even managed to dress herself. She will be leaving her room today. Satisfied?”

“What do you think?” Sandor asked sardonically. “Your lady had to dress herself all alone, but I guess that’s satisfactory to you.”

“You came to ask about her health, didn’t you?” the foreign duck asked.

“I came to ask about her wellbeing. You will never leave her all alone with her doors unbarred again! Have I made myself clear?” Sandor snarled.

“Yes,” she hissed discontentedly.

“Good. I won’t repeat it again.”

Sandor nodded and marched away from that vapid woman. The little bird was surrounded by monsters and protected by incompetent gnats. It was unbelievable that she had managed to survive so long among them and even keep her sweet nature. She was a creature for songs, not a real life, but she would have to learn fast, there was no way around it. Sandor, too, had been just as stupid as her. They both had, he and his sister Aenor. What a damned fool Sandor had been all those years ago! He used to dream of a beautiful maiden by his side. He used to dream of protecting her and showering her with kisses and gifts in exchange for his favourite songs. Sandor was never much of a singer, but he loved songs and wanted someone who could sing for him. And the same went for Aenor. She was no singer, but she had a head full of songs and dreams nonetheless. She used to dream of Sandor’s knightly friend falling madly in love with her. Both siblings even shared some of their dreams together. Sandor was meant to win a famous tourney and use the money to buy a castle and lands right next to Aenor’s new marital home. They were to visit each other often and they would never be truly parted. So many dreams. Aenor even decided that all that glory would turn Gregor’s black heart to gold, because everybody was supposed to be happy. Everything was supposed to be perfect. And nothing ever was. Aenor was dead. By Gregor’s hands. Gregor’s innocent wives were dead. By Gregor’s hands. Half of Sandor’s face was gone, replaced by a menacing mosaic of burned tissue. By Gregor’s hands. And Gregor lived and perhaps had no heart at all. Dreams only ever lead to pain and disappointment. The sooner the little bird realized that, the better for her.

When Sandor turned around another corner, he heard a nearing sound of the clicking heels. He stopped in his tracks. A woman. A lady. Why was there a lady walking so fast? What had happened? Sandor took a few cautious steps back and he came face to face with the flushed little bird. They both stared at each other, frozen in surprise.

“What are you doing, girl?” he snapped.

“My lord…” She tried to catch her breath. “I wanted to speak to you.”

Sandor looked around. There was no one else. Typical. She was rushing down the corridors all alone. She was surrounded by her enemies, she had almost got raped just a few days before and here she was, alone. 

“Have you gone daft, girl?” 

“I wanted to speak to you.”

“So you say. Why do you always have to go alone everywhere?” Sandor lashed out. He hated how his mouth twitched uncontrollably, whenever he was around her. It was as if his body was trying to be as repulsive in front of her as possible. “Haven’t you fucking learned anything, you foolish little bird?”

The girl quickly averted her eyes and it angered him. It shouldn’t have, but it always did. “The little bird still can’t bear to look at me, can she?” Sandor snarled. “You were glad enough to see my face when the mob had you, though. Remember?”

“I do, my lord,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. “That is why I sought you out. Shae said she had just spoken to you and…” her voice died down.

“You sought me out?” Sandor repeated incredulously as her words finally sunk in. “Why the fuck would you try to seek me out when you can’t even look at me properly?” He cupped her under the jaw, raising her chin.

Sansa turned her wide, innocent eyes to him and she was so beautiful it infuriated Sandor only further.

“Speak up, girl. What is it you want from me?”

Her chin started to quiver. “I… I wanted to… thank you, for... for saving me... you were so brave,“ she murmured.

“Brave?” Sandor laughed without mirth and let go of her chin. “A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off rats. They had me thirty to one, and not a man of them dared face me.”

The girl’s face turned red and she dropped her gaze. She was shivering like a leaf. He had risked his life for her and here she was, more terrified of him than ever.

“Spare me your courtesies, girl,” Sandor barked at her. “What are they worth to me, when you can’t even look me in the eyes without shaking?”

The girl bit her lip and clenched her little fists, probably summoning the courage to meet his eyes. After all she had been through, looking at Sandor still seemed like the worst thing possible to her. Stupid girl.

Sandor was roused from his glum thoughts as the girl turned to him with a determined look in her eyes. And gods, her eyes were mesmerising as they looked directly into his. So kind, so beautiful. Why was he angry at her, again? Oh, right, her eyes. They were so blue. How could anyone have eyes so blue, anyway? The girl even stepped closer to him. Her intoxicating feminine scent was filling his nostrils and she was so close he could almost…

Before Sandor could react, the girl rose to her toes and leaned into him. She gently cupped his disfigured cheek with her fingers and pressed her luscious lips to his scarred ones. Sandor gasped and his brain stopped working at that moment. A kiss. Surely this was a kiss. He had never kissed anyone before, but he was quite sure that Sansa Stark’s lips were pressed to his own. A kiss. A real kiss. His first kiss. A kiss with the most beautiful woman of all time. His little bird. His. And finally Sandor’s brain realized what was happening. Except only his southern brain noticed, not the one in his skull. Gods, he was kissing Sansa Stark. Should he move his lips? Shouldn’t she?

Sandor was just about to embrace the girl when Sansa broke the kiss. She was blushing deeply, but she gave him a shy smile. There was no trace of disgust in her pure eyes, just silent pride. Sandor gaped at her with open mouth. Had he just kissed her? Had she? What… what was happening?

“Thank you,” the girl whispered to him timidly and before Sandor could recover his senses, she was gone.

Sandor was left to stare stupidly at the wall. Had Sansa Stark just thanked him for a kiss?


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa slammed the door and braced herself against it. Stupid Sansa. Stupid, stupid Sansa. How could she have thought that the Hound would appreciate her kiss? How could she have been so naïve? Clegane was no knight, as he liked to remind her so often. And he was right, she was just as stupid as a singing bird after all.

She had initially thought she succeeded. The man had lowered his head so much when speaking to her that she was actually able to reach him easily. And when she kissed him, he stood frozen in place, but he didn’t snap at her and didn’t seem particularly angry. Just shocked. Sansa ignored the rapid beating of her heart and took measured, graceful steps, trying to exude the right amount of queenly confidence. She had kissed the man in a dark corridor with no flowers or music surrounding them. She needed to redeem the impression with her own regal air of dignity. Her hands were shaking, but she held her head high and hoped to leave a lasting impression. The Hound wouldn’t want to protect a foolish little bird for long, but he would hopefully protect the majestic sister of the King in the North.

But Sansa was a foolish little bird after all. When she heard Clegane call after her, she panicked and immediately fled to her chambers. A knight would have been greatly touched by her actions. His eyes would have perhaps glistened with a trembling tear, but he would have surmounted his emotions and poured them into a poem, or a song. A knight would have felt bound to serve the lady that had graced him with a kiss. He would have often remembered it as the single happiest moment in his life. But he would have definitely not ordered her to come back. He would have not run after her chasing her like a dog. No knight would do that, it was unseemly. Even Dontos had never behaved like that. But the Hound was no knight and certainly no fool. What would he do to her now? Would he laugh at her stupidity? Would he be angrier with her than usual? Would he… Gods have mercy, would he tell Joffrey?

Sansa heard the scuff of boots on stone as well as the ominous creak of leather and armour. She held her breath and hoped the man would change his mind, go away, disappear into thin air. He did none of those things, of course, and he instead knocked on her door. Well, it was hardly a simple knock. Sansa could clearly feel the door shaking in its frame.

“Little bird, let me in!” 

Fear clenched Sansa’s tummy, but the man’s tone didn’t allow for disagreement. Sansa swallowed and opened the doors. She didn’t dare to look at the Hound’s face, but even with her eyes demurely lowered she noticed how he filled the doorway. When Sansa took a step back, she only trapped herself against the wall. A feeling of terrible dread took hold of her again. 

“My lord?” Sansa spoke in a weak voice. 

The man was silent for a long, heavy moment before he spoke again. “Little bird, why did you run away from me?”

“You ran after me first!”

“I didn’t run, I just followed you.” He took one more step closer to her. “You didn’t come back when I told you to.”

“I…” She couldn’t tell him he had no right to tell her around. She couldn’t admit he had scared her. What could she possibly do? “I apologize, my lord. I did not mean to displease you.”

His huge palm once again cradled Sansa‘s chin and lifted her face so that her eyes met his. Sansa tried to swallow her fear, but the lump in her throat would not go down.

“And what did you mean, little bird?” he rasped. He did not seem angry. More suspicious than anything else. Was it possible he had forgotten about all the noble rewarding gestures? Life had been so cruel to the Hound that it made him see evil everywhere. He only knew punishment and political games, no true rewards. He didn’t think he could receive a meaningful reward anymore. 

“I only wanted to tell you how thankful I am to you, my lord. You have saved me so many times and I wanted…”

Now her words seemed to anger him. “Thankful?” he snarled. “Do you go around kissing every man that helps you? Have you learned nothing at all, girl? Have you any idea what…”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s just you!” Sansa interrupted the man’s tirade, regretting it immediately.

“Just me?” he repeated, his voice a little calmer, but still very much threatening. “The Imp has once saved you from the beating in the throne room. Haven’t you kissed that gargoyle of a man as well?”

“No, I would never… No!” 

He caressed her cheek with his callused thumb, but he didn’t let go of her face. “Why not? He is a rich man. Powerful.”

“It is… I just did not want… did not think… lord Tyrion…”

“Why me then?”

“I… I…” Sansa could not find the right words. “You do not like my courtesies and I had no other way to show you how much I value what you did for me… it’s… it’s only you, my lord. I am grateful to lord Tyrion, I just… I thought I ought to show you what I feel… I… I apologize, my lord,” she mumbled incoherently.

Sansa’s eyes were filled with tears. It was undignified, but she could not help herself. She had put so many hopes into her plan. She had hoped to secure herself the protection of the Hound, and she instead did the exact opposite. 

“What do you feel, little bird?” he rasped softly. Sansa knew he would get angry soon and she rather closed her eyes. Her kiss should have gentled the rage inside him, but it didn’t. Nothing about the Hound was as it should have been.

“I…” Sansa swallowed. “I did not mean to displease you, my lord.”

His warm hand tenderly stroked her face. “You didn’t displease me.”

Sansa opened her eyes. “I didn’t?”

“Tell me, little bird, did you want to kiss me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I did, my lord!”

He smirked. “That was just a peck, not a proper kiss, little bird. Do you think ladies peck their favourite knights?”

Sansa stared at the man in astonishment. She was certain her kiss had been perfect. She had read extensively about hundreds of kisses and she always reread those particular passages in books so many times that she was now something of an expert on the topic. Even Dontos would surely agree with that assessment. A proper lady however could not admit such a thing. And she certainly couldn’t oppose the Hound in her current position. “I… I am sorry, my lord, I did not know.”

The Hound buried his other hand into Sansa’s hair, angling her head further back. “Do you want to give me a kiss, or not?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Then do it properly.”

“But how…?”

Sansa could clearly smell and feel the Hound’s hot breath ghost over her skin and she couldn’t help but shiver. “You will move your lips with mine, little bird, won’t you?”

Sansa nodded. She was confused by the whole situation, her neck was hurting and she didn’t feel at all comfortable being caged between the wall and the Hound’s body, but she couldn’t disagree. He had deserved a kiss, even if he imagined a perfect kiss differently, so she braced herself.

The Hound was surprisingly gentle, staring for a moment into her eyes with unhidden fascination. His mouth twitched as he lowered his head to touch his lips to hers. Sansa tried to ignore her discomfort and tried to mimic the movement of his lips.

“Sansa,” he breathed out. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

Sansa chose not to directly scold the man for the inappropriate use of her name. “I do, my lord,” she answered honestly. She did truly want to show him her gratitude.

“You mean it…”

He crushed his lips to hers again and it was worse than before. The Hound didn’t even pretend to be kissing Sansa anymore, he instead acted more like he was trying to devour her. He was groaning, panting into her mouth and then he touched her lips with his tongue. Sansa wanted to pull away from him immediately, but he had a firm hold of her head and didn’t let her move in the slightest. It was horrible. When Sansa started to voice her protests, the Hound only took it as an opportunity to invade her mouth with his tongue. When he left a trace of saliva on her clean skin, Sansa shuddered in disgust. She had the Hound’s tongue in her mouth and she couldn’t get it out. It was astonishing to realize that a man of his age didn’t know anything about kisses. But Clegane finally, finally pulled away from her. 

“Little bird… my little bird,” he smiled at her and kissed her cheek, her forehead, her hair… Sansa felt as if he was kissing her whole face all at once, touching her whole body all at once and it was all too much for her. She wanted to run away and hide herself from the world. She wondered absent-mindedly whether it would help if she happened to faint in his crushing embrace.

“My lord, you cannot do that! It is inappropriate!” she managed to protest weakly.

He kissed her cheek again and looked directly into her eyes.

“Little bird, what do you want from me?” he demanded. “What is it? Do you want me to kill Joffrey? The Queen? Do you want me to take you back home to your family? What is it?”

Sansa frowned at his offensive suggestion. “Nothing, my lord. I only wanted to thank you.”

Clegane let out a shuddering breath and Sansa noticed his hands were very sweaty. “But you are mine, little bird, aren’t you?” he asked shakily.

“I am your lady,” Sansa nodded.

“My lady,” he whispered. “My little lady.” He gave her a small smile and before Sansa realized what he was doing, he was on his knees, kissing her torso and looking up to her. 

“Sansa, you’ll never regret this.” He took her hands in his and pulled them to his lips, kissing them passionately. Now Sansa had the Hound’s smelly saliva even on her hands. “I’ll take care of everything, you’ll see. You’ll never want for nothing, little bird. I’ll take you to safety. I’ll always keep you safe, I swear it.”

“You… you swear?” Sansa couldn’t believe her ears.

“Of course I swear it. I’ll swear much more than that to you, Sansa,” he promised standing up. He gave her a strange, honest smile and Sansa stared at the man in awe. She had never seen his eyes so completely devoid of anger and she realized for the first time that the Hound actually looked very much like a northman. Perhaps her kiss had worked after all. Sansa still couldn’t believe that the man agreed to be her sworn shield. Well, his style was atrocious, but his promise was now more important than his manners. It had been wise not to scold him for his improper behaviour after all. Only kindness and patience would help Sansa with this man.

Clegane pulled Sansa against his chest and buried his nose in her hair. “Sansa,” he breathed out. “I can’t believe you are mine.” He lowered his lips to her ear and Sansa could once again feel his tongue on her skin. Clegane truly behaved more like a dog than a man. No knight would ever think of licking a lady’s ear, but the Hound even scraped his teeth across her earlobe and then softly trailed kisses down toward her neck. 

“My lord, you cannot do that, it is not proper!”

The Hound tore his lips away from Sansa’s neck. “I know, little bird. I can wait, I promise.” He smoothed the hair around her face looking directly into her eyes. As he captured her head in his massive hands, Sansa felt a tremor of irrational fear that he could easily crush her skull like this. “I’ll be so good to you, Sansa. I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

“My lord, if somebody sees us…”

“Then I’ll cut them to pieces. Nobody will lay a hand on my woman, I can promise you that.”

Sansa blinked in surprise. “Your woman?” she repeated. “My lord, what do you mean?”

“Don’t think for a moment I’d let any of those white-cloaked fuckers touch you again. I shouldn’t have let that happen before, I am so sorry, little bird. I just didn’t know how to stop it without putting you into more danger. I’ll make them all pay for hurting you, I promise. I’m so sorry.”

“I understand that.” It occurred to Sansa that she could use this opportunity to get away from the man’s embrace. “My lord, could you release me, please? I shall give you back your cloak.”

“A cloak? You… you’ve kept my cloak?” he breathed out.

“Yes, my lord, but I will give it to you immediately. I have it in a chest. Just over there.” She pointed her finger toward a cedar chest to make it clear he needed to let her go from his embrace.

But Clegane didn’t move. For a moment it almost seemed as if there were tears in the man’s eyes, but then the Hound buried his face in her hair again. “It’s yours, little bird,” he whispered, kissing her ear once more. “All of me is yours.”

“My lord, you should not be doing this, I am to wed the king!”

“Bugger the king. No, little bird, I’d never have let him have you anyway,” he murmured into her hair. “You don’t want to know what he does to women. I’ve never had any real plan, but now we can make plans together.”

“But…”

He pressed his finger to her lips, silencing her. “Don’t worry yourself about Joffrey, Sansa. Don’t worry about anything, that’s my job from now on. You just need to be happy.”

Sansa opened her mouth once again, but he covered it with his own and took her lower lip gently between his teeth. Sansa didn’t understand why he had to use his teeth and tongue so much. Could he not do anything clean and pretty?

“Little bird, I have to go now, but I’ll come to you as soon as possible. Just promise me you’ll keep safe.”

All Sansa could do was nod. The Hound smiled at her. “Good. I’ll get you out of this place as soon as possible, my love, I swear it.”

He kissed her once more on her forehead and left. Sansa stood there frozen, leaning back against the wall. Everything felt unreal. Sansa’s head was spinning as her befuddled mind tried to make sense of the previous events. The man had promised to take her to Winterfell, hadn’t he? He had sworn to keep her safe. Clegane certainly seemed much more competent than Dontos and he never made any false promises. Sansa’s heart swelled with renewed hope. Still, the young woman couldn’t shake the feeling that something hadn’t gone quite according to her plan. And she had no idea how to explain herself to a man like Clegane.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor couldn’t wait for his shift to end. There were too many things to take care about and too little time to waste. 

Sandor knew that Sansa deserved and wanted a proper, long courtship. And he would have liked to give her just that, but unfortunately the circumstances played against them. The city would soon have to face Stannis in a battle and Sandor had no intention of dying for Joffrey, leaving Sansa all alone, at the mercy of one royal fucker or another. They had to leave King’s Landing as soon as possible, but Sandor could not escape with a high-born lady on horseback. It was too risky and besides, Sansa would hate him after a single day of hiding in a forest. It had to be a ship. Unfortunately, the buggering Imp had closed off the river and all the trading galleys had fled. Sandor was therefore left with only one option. Hopefully such haste wouldn’t cause Sansa too much distress. Sandor always fucked things up, but he couldn’t let that happen this time. He wished he could get his hands on a direwolf pup. Such gift would surely make Sansa overlook many of Sandor’s slights. But as there was not exactly an abundance of direwolves in King’s Landing, Sandor would have to find other ways to appease his little bird.

Sandor was just about to come up with some new splendid ideas how to charm his little bird, when Trant’s irritating voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I saw the Stark girl today, she’s finally left the room.”

“And?” Moore asked. “Is she injured?”

“Course not. Looking all happy and rosy. A bit of roughing up always does good to women, puts them into their place.”

Sandor bit the inside of his mouth to keep quiet. Cutting the head off was too boring, but a pretty little gutting tended to be quite educational. It was too quick, though, and Sandor wasn’t one for burning or strangling. Perhaps the old-fashioned chopping off the arm wasn’t completely out of the question? Seeing blood slowly drain out of Trant’s face would make Sandor happy and rosy, too.

“Ah, you shouldn’t have gone after her, dog,” Moore laughed. The man that had failed to protect Sansa had the audacity to laugh. “She could have got a proper lesson.”

“Will you shut your fucking hole?” Sandor snarled at the knights.

Sandor wasn’t a patient man and he had waited way too long to rid the world of these knightly cunts. His hands were itching to get on with it already. Unfortunately, it was not the time. Not yet anyway. Now was the time to plan.

The plan, yes. The plan. Well, Sansa would of course want to go north, but that wasn’t a viable option in their current position. The King in the North would sooner have Sandor’s head chopped off than accept him as his good brother. It would be some time before the couple could travel to Winterfell, but all would be well one day. The Young Wolf just needed to realize how much he needed Sandor. The Hound would serve him better than any northman ever could and he knew more about Lannisters than all of them combined. Sandor hoped that the Young Wolf would have enough wits to give him a nice castle and a lord’s title with it, because it would make the little bird happy. But if Robb Stark was an even greater fool than his father had been, Sandor would provide Sansa just as much comfort elsewhere. The most important thing was that Sansa loved Sandor. She loved him. She actually loved him.

Sandor was glad when his shift finally ended. It was the first time since the lord Stark’s death that Sandor hadn’t broken his fast with wine and it only made him more aware of the Joff’s insistent quacking. It almost made him reach for wine again. Almost. Just a few hours prior he had been Joff’s pathetic dog sleeping in bed with an empty wineskin, but now he was lady Sansa’s lover and that required some self-control. Sandor had to suppress the smile tugging on his lips. A lover. Sandor Clegane, a lover of Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. He really couldn’t stop this smile, so he instead added a scowl. 

“And dog?” the inbred cunt of a king called after him.

Sandor turned around wordlessly. 

“You will be escorting lady Sansa to the dinner with my mother in the evening. We cannot have her embarrass herself again as she had among the commoners, can we?”

Sandor nodded silently. He wished he could cut Joffrey in two. He wished he could hear him scream in terror moments before his death. But he couldn’t. Sandor knew he had to kill Joffrey, but he also knew he would never be able to do it. Just ten years prior Joffrey had been the only living person in the world that Sandor truly cared about. The white-cloaked Lannister pest frequently called Sandor Joff’s wet nurse, but Sandor had enjoyed spending time with the boy. They had played together, laughed together. Joffrey had been a strange child, but he was a child that wanted to be around Sandor. Joffrey needed him. He liked him. And somehow it became mutual. Joffrey hugged Sandor twice and both times it brought tears to Sandor’s eyes. No other man had spent so much time with the boy as Sandor and Sandor was stupidly proud of every milestone the child had achieved. They were like a family. And then they were not.

Hopes were the worst disease of all and Sandor had enough experiences with the sickness they always inevitably brought to him. Only fools could give in to hope. Sandor hated that he, too, had been so stupid he’d deluded himself several times into thinking someone had actually cared for him. He had eventually learned his lesson and in his twenties he never fell for that fool’s shit again. Sansa had probably realized that. She was such a clever little bird, she knew her chirping would never have convinced Sandor. She had to actually show him how she felt about him to make him believe her. And show him she did. As Sandor marched out of the throne room, he felt like a giddy little boy again, exhilarated and confused at the same time. 

It was obvious that the new couple would have to marry before their escape. The little bird was raised more like a septa than a princess and as the morning’s events had shown, she considered even Sandor’s kisses inappropriate before a wedding. As far as Sandor was concerned, Sansa was already his. There was no greater proclamation of love than kissing a melted face without fear and disgust. Sansa was such a pure, gentle soul that she would never have been able to kiss him without a strong attachment no gods could provide. And a dog would always be loyal to his lady. His true lady. Sansa however believed all the religious shit that her septa had taught her and without a proper wedding she would never agree to share a cabin with Sandor. And Sandor certainly intended to share with Sansa much more than a cabin. Besides, if he was completely honest with himself, Sandor actually wanted to marry Sansa as soon as possible. Patience was far from being one of Sandor’s virtues and he didn’t really mind having an excuse for skipping the whole courtship thing. He just wanted to be with his little bird already. 

After spending all day thinking about Sansa, Sandor first had to relieve the pressure of his aching cock. Only then he could step out of the Red Keep and head to the market square. People were starving, but there were still enough rich buggers worrying about their fat bellies and there were even more rats trying to squeeze out as much profit as possible out of people’s fears. It didn’t take Sandor long to find one. 

“Ealdwine,” Sandor smiled menacingly at the man. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hound,” the man gaped at him. He didn’t say anything else, but he had at least enough sense not to draw out the dagger. 

Sandor didn’t move either and continued to lean on the wall. “Weren’t you supposed to be in exile?” he asked in a bored tone.

The northman held his chin up. “I was exiled by Lord Eddard Stark. I gathered it didn’t count anymore.”

“It does.”

The man shrugged. “Ah, an honest mistake. I’ll be leaving then.” He tried to move away.

“Not so fast, Ealdwine,” Sandor rasped.

Northener turned around and stared up at Sandor. “What do you want? You’ve known about me for years, dog, don’t try to pretend otherwise,” his voice turned serious.

“I’m not pretending.”

“What, then? We fought side by side, remember? Here, in this city. You saved me then. You want to kill me now?”

Sandor had no interest in remembering the Robert’s Rebellion. “I heard you’d begged lord Stark for another chance. Begged like a little girl, they say.”

“What’s that to you?”

“I find it interesting.”

“Why? Why now?”

“Because now I might know how you could prove your worth to the Starks.”

Man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I’m listening.”

“You’re a smuggler, Ealdwine. You’ve never been much of a fighter, but you’ve always been one of the best smugglers in Westeros. Now you can finally put your skills to good use and help lady Sansa to safety.”

“Lady Sansa?” the man breathed out. “Why would you help her? You’re the King’s dog. You’ve killed her father.”

“I didn’t kill him. Besides, even a dog gets tired of being kicked.”

“So you want to bring lady Sansa back to Robb Stark and hope he’ll take you into his service? Why should I believe that?”

“You used to be clever.”

“And you used to be trustworthy. But you’ve changed and I don’t recognize you anymore, Hound.”

“If you recognize the crumpled mug in a mirror, you can recognize me well enough, too.”

“Really? How old were you during the sacking of King’s Landing, Hound? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“Twelve.”

“Aye, twelve. I remember all the Lannister men raping and pillaging the city, but I don’t remember you ever taking part in that, Hound. You were a good fighter then and an honest boy, not a bastard’s dog. That boy would’ve never played tricks on an old comrade.”

“Not playing tricks now, either.”

“Why should I believe that? You’ve never been a turncloak. Even as a child you had more honour than most knights.”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about honour, Ealdwine. I made you an offer. Take it or leave it and spare me your blathering.”

“And what about your loyalty?”

“As far as I know, a man’s loyalty lies firstly with his wife.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Perhaps I should’ve been more specific. I want your best cabin for lady Sansa and her husband and also a stall for their warhorse. In exchange you’ll get money from me and gratitude from the Young Wolf.”

Ealdwine stared at Sandor dumbly for a long moment. “Husband? You mean… you?” he breathed out. “Lady Sansa and… you? Why would she marry you?”

“Will you give me that cabin, or not?”

“What… why… how?!”

“I’m waiting for your answer.”

“But she’s high-born! A beauty! And you… fuck! Fuck!”

“Still waiting,” Sandor coldly informed the babbling northerner.

Ealdwine finally shut his gob. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “If she’s with you against her will, Hound, you won’t make it to your destination alive.”

“Fair enough. Well?”

“If what you say is true… then you’ve got yourself a deal.”

When Sandor and the northman parted ways half an hour later, Sandor’s heart was beating maddeningly. Two days. The smuggler’s ship was leaving in two days to Essos. There was a lot to do until then, but most importantly, in two days, Sandor would be married to Sansa. Two days. Sansa would probably be surprised by such a quick development, but it came as a great relief to Sandor. He had learned to ride a horse by fleeing murderous Gregor, he had learned to fight by being thrown into the middle of a war at the age of twelve and he would learn to be a lover and a husband just the same. 

It would be the best for Sansa as well. Sansa was too good of a person and too bad of a liar to be having a secret relationship and Sandor didn’t want to put any more pressure on her. The little bird needed the stability a proper marriage would bring to her. Sansa would find all the comfort and safety in Sandor’s embrace, so that she could finally heal from the horrors she had experienced. Sansa had always infuriated Sandor, because he thought her pure nature would either get spoiled, or worse, it would cost her her life. It soon became apparent that she was just as stubborn as her father and she retained her kindness despite the trials she had faced. She was no liar and it was damn scary. She parroted empty words she had been taught, but whenever she chose to lie deliberately, it was incredibly awkward. She did it even to protect such a drunk fucker as Dontos. Sandor had lied then, too. For her. Only for her. 

He loved how kind she was and he hated it even more. He had seen no positive outcome for the girl and Sandor despised her for it and despised himself for caring. But then the little bird miraculously solved it all. With Sandor at her side she could stay just as sweet as ever and no harm would come to her. She now had Sandor to keep her safe and just the mere thought was strangely thrilling. 

Sandor loathed spending time in the market, but there were quite a few things he needed to buy before their departure, so he spent the rest of the afternoon talking to one jumpy merchant after another. They all looked at him as if he was going to bite their heads off, but he even ordered new expensive clothes for himself. Hopefully, Sansa would fancy seeing him in something else than armour. When Sandor was done in a market he even took a long bath and submitted himself to the barber's humiliating soaping and shaving. Shaving was yet another thing Sandor hated. He usually cut himself in the ridges of his scar and besides, his hair grew too fast to keep it under control, but the man couldn’t grow a beard on his melted skin, either. 

Sandor spent his day with his head in clouds, but a single glance into a mirror brought him back to reality. He was still the same ugly fucker he had always been. It hurt to realize that no matter what he did, he had no chance of ever becoming the comely knight of Sansa’s dreams. She had dreamed of being married to a pretty king and instead she would end up with that hideous thing in the mirror. There was nothing pretty about Sandor. Sandor’s main problem was that he had always survived everything. He had survived the beatings at the hands of his brother and father, while Aenor hadn’t survived a single blow from Gregor. He had survived his burns, even though everybody had predicted it was impossible. He had survived the sacking of King’s Landing as well, even though he had been in the first line of attack and all his friends fell around him. He was left alone and mortally wounded and he survived anyway. Just about his luck. He never made any more friends and his body became a living chronicle of years of service, battles and tourneys. Such jumble of scars simply shouldn’t have been alive and it was fucking ugly.

Sandor wondered what Sansa thought about his looks. Was she attracted to him physically as well? At least a little bit? Perhaps she assumed he had a nice body. She was the type of girl to think that knights were supposed to go through battles victoriously, while miraculously keeping their skin unmarred. Just like in the stories. Everybody fought and nobody had scars. Or just one pretty, manly scar that made the hero look more heroic, but never changed his looks significantly. No knight of songs had a badly stitched, spread scar or an infected, rotting wound that attracted flies. Would Sansa be disappointed when she saw Sandor’s body on their wedding night? Would she come to regret choosing him over someone like the Tyrell rose boy? Sandor felt a strange bolt of fear constrict his chest. Just as easily as Sansa had fallen in love with him, she could fall out of love as well and Sandor wasn’t sure he would be able to cope with that. His looks could hardly keep a woman interested. Well, at least he had a nice cock. Thad to be more important than scars, hadn’t it? Sandor would make Sansa sing in pleasure and then she would want his body for more than protection.

Later in the evening, when Sandor stepped through the doors into the Sansa’s chambers, the little bird stared at him as if he had grown a second head.

“Lady Sansa, I am here to escort you safely to dinner.”

She let out a relieved breath. Sandor couldn’t help but grin at her wickedly. No, she definitely wasn’t made for secrets, but her embarrassment was adorable.

“Thank you, se-… my lord.”

It felt right when Sansa took his arm, it felt right when they walked side by side. Sansa was tall for a woman, so the top of her head almost reached Sandor’s shoulder and when he turned his head to her, he could breathe in her beautiful scent. He was entranced by the sight of Sansa’s silky hair flowing alluringly over her shoulders and down her back. He loved her hair. All their children would have it as well. One daughter would closely resemble Sansa, the other would look like red-headed Aenor. They would be perfect. All their children would be perfect. Combination of Stark blood and Clegane strength would create some of the best fighters in Westeros and nobody would ever hurt their family.

Sansa looked up to Sandor and when she met his eyes, she quickly averted them. Sandor loved how shy she was with him. He felt an overwhelming urge to hug her to him, wrap his arms around her and keep her safe from everything.

“Have you had a good day, little bird?”

“I have, my lord. It is kind of you to ask.”

“And have you thought about me?”

“I…” Sansa’s voice wavered.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, little bird.”

“I… I…” she bit her lip nervously. “You have had your hair cut, my lord?”

“I have.” Sandor hoped she couldn’t see him blushing or something. He suddenly felt very foolish for putting so much effort into his appearance.

“It suits you very well, my lord.”

She meant it. It wasn’t just an empty compliment, Sandor could see in her innocent eyes that she meant it. Sandor loved, how she… well, alright, he loved everything about her. Sandor pulled her toward a darkened hallway and spun her to face him, kissing her passionately.

“Little bird,” he whispered against her lips. “I’ve missed you so much, Sansa, so much.”

“My lord, we cannot do this!” 

“Don’t worry, little bird. You’re safe with me. You’re always safe with me, you know that, don’t you?” She tasted of berries and sweetness. She tasted of everything he'd ever dreamed of.

“But we cannot… It’s improper, my lord.”

“Nothing will be improper soon enough. We’ll be leaving the city before the battle.” He dipped his head to her neck and nuzzled her delicate skin, enjoying the feel of her softness against him.

Sansa stopped resisting him. “We will?”

“Of course we will, little bird, but I can’t tell you more than that. Cersei could spot your lie from afar.”

Sansa nodded bashfully. “I understand that, my lord. But we will be leaving? Soon?”

“Soon. That is…” Sandor hesitated for a moment. “…if you want to...”

“I do, my lord. Of course I want to leave with you!” she confirmed enthusiastically.

Sandor grinned at her and crushed his lips to hers again. She wanted him, wanted to leave with him. She trusted him with her life. 

Even after he was left alone in a hallway, Sandor kept repeating those words to himself. She wanted him. It still felt like a dream, too good to be true, but their love for each other was real. It was real. If Sansa hadn’t been so forward with him, he’d never have believed she could ever fall in love with him. As a green boy Sandor had been easily fooled by every polite gesture and he had even pinned high hopes on one kitchen maid just because she was nice to him. No other girl had been nice to Sandor at Casterly Rock, just her. Sandor knew all about the ugliness of the world and even more about his face, but he was still dumb enough to think that there had to be some affection behind mere politeness. The kitchen maid was a sweet girl, just a year older than Sandor and her entire skin was covered with deep dark pock scars. She was a polite little thing and also reasonably unattractive, so the stupid young bugger Sandor thought they could perhaps comfort each other in their ugliness. Sandor protected the girl, defended her against her tormentors and tried to get her anything she needed. He was planning on asking her to marry him, so that they could piss on the world and make a nice little family just for themselves. And then he overheard her talk and laugh with other girls about his looks. She hadn’t loved him at all, instead he made her skin crawl. That day Sandor got drunk and paid his first whore. 

Sandor had only ever taken women from behind so that he wouldn’t see disgust in their eyes, but on two separate occasions he started to hope again. He had known he paid more than others, but the damned fool he was, he wanted to hope that a whore who offered herself to him had to like him at least a little bit. And so it happened that he tried to pay for a kiss. Twice. As it turned out, whores could easily feign interest or pleasure, but they could never hide the revulsion in their gaze. Sandor never took the kisses he had paid for and drunk himself into a stupor instead. He had been sure he’d never get a kiss. But today he did. Sandor had dreamed countless times about Sansa kissing him, asking him to keep her safe, hiding herself in his embrace. But the reality was so much better than any of his dreams. There had been no revulsion in Sansa’s beautiful eyes. There was vulnerability, determination, but not a trace of disgust. There was no mistaking of her motives this time. It was adorable when Sansa tried to convince them both that she was just trying to thank him. Perhaps gratitude had indeed been her motivation, but Sandor knew all too well that without love she would never get through with it without being repulsed. Sandor had seen the shock in Sansa’s eyes when he had kissed her properly. But even when she was obviously appalled by such sinful behaviour, she still looked at him with kind eyes. She had kissed him, because she had wanted to.

Sandor’s blissful thoughts were rudely interrupted by a quivering voice. “Don’t move, or I’ll kill you, dog. I’ve seen everything!”

Sandor turned to the man who was pointing a sword at his throat. He was unimpressed. “What the fuck are you doing, Boros? Hasn’t anyone told you that you shouldn’t be playing with these things? You’ll just poke your eye out.”

“Don’t move! Nobody will put me in the dungeon, I tell you! I am a knight of the Kingsguard!”

“Not for long, I hear. The queen doesn’t look kindly on men who fail to protect her sons.”

“Don’t move or I’ll kill you!”

“Really? You’ll oink me to death?” Sandor took confident steps toward his dear sworn brother. He never liked having brothers anyway.

“I warn you, don’t move! You’ll come with me. The king will be very interested to hear what I’ve seen.”

“And what have you seen?”

“I’ve seen you kiss the Stark bitch and promise her you’ll take her away.”

Sandor gave a bark of laughter. “You think the king will believe that?”

“He will, when I tell him all I’ve heard. He’ll let me keep my cloak!”

“Seven bloody hells, you really aren’t very bright, Boros, are you?”

“I warn you, don’t do anything stupid!”

And he didn’t. Sandor never did stupid things with his sword. But when he later looked at the bloody mess with the poked eye on the floor, he couldn’t help but wonder what Sansa would say to this recent development. He hoped he hadn’t fucked things up too much yet. Would Sansa be repulsed by his actions? There was no way of knowing. Bugger it all, he needed that direwolf pup.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had not slept much and she spent all morning sewing, but her complexion was much improved anyway. She looked the happiest since she had in a long time. She would be free soon, free of Joffrey, free of Cersei, free of King’s Landing. The Hound had given her his word and she trusted him more than anyone else in the city. They would indeed leave within a few days and he would protect her. Sansa would hate spending weeks in a carriage, but she was desperate enough to do so. There was no other way out of the city. All the trading ships were gone, so there was no other way but to bribe the guards and escape in a carriage, probably disguised as commoners. It was scary and exciting at the same time. Sansa always enjoyed stories where beautiful princesses disguised themselves as commoners and people fell in love with them anyway. And now that Robb was the King in the North, she was a real princess, wasn’t she? Her journey would teach her a valuable spiritual lesson. She would soon understand every aspect of the lives of the common folk and she would later use this experience to win many arguments. And to better the lives of the poorest, of course. Sansa was not sure how she would fit all her possessions into a single carriage, but she had to manage. Unfortunately, there would be no place for a tent. Seven save her, would Sansa have to sleep in a carriage? And the poor Hound would have to sleep outside then. It would be a true test of Sansa’s character, but she was determined to withstand it. She was a princess, a Stark of Winterfell, and she could be brave.

As Sansa sat in deep thought, her mind wandered back to the events of the previous evening. Ser Boros had gone so mad with fear of his impending punishment that he had even threatened the Hound in a hallway. Clegane had no other choice but to kill his sworn brother. It was a horrible incident, but Cersei seemed strangely pleased with the death of Ser Boros. The Queen had been very angry at the man for not protecting prince Tommen during the riot and when the Hound informed her about the knight’s tragic demise, she just smiled at Clegane sweetly and thanked him for his service. The Hound had looked at Sansa almost anxiously and Sansa hadn’t seen him since then. She hoped he hadn’t tried to drown his guilt in wine. He could not be blamed for defending himself. Sansa had never been under the impression that the Hound particularly cared for any of the members of the Kingsguard, but then again, perhaps she had never really known Clegane at all. At the very least, he certainly cared for her, which she had previously thought impossible.

Sansa should have known better. She was well read in matters of courtly love, she should have known the Hound would fall for her. Everybody thought Sansa exceptionally pretty and more importantly, she was always praised for her refined manners and cultivated mind, so it was only natural for true knights to fall for her. Knights always loved the revered ladies they had sworn to protect, they could not help it. The Hound was no knight in name and looks, but he was obviously a knight at heart. While his actions had been quite shocking to Sansa at first, she understood them now as well. The poor Hound had been treated so badly that he forgot about proper manners altogether. Sansa could not fault him for his lack of manners. It was actually quite touching how he had tried to show her his devotion with his eager kisses and awkward touches. He was indeed like those mistreated dogs that the Winterfell kennel master had tried to save and train so often. Everything evoked overt reactions in them. The Hound, too, did not know how to express himself properly. Thanks to the kennel master Sansa now knew that she could not reprimand the man too much. She would praise the Hound’s progress and only gently point out his failings. His kisses were far too rough, but Sansa could bear them bravely for now and slowly make Clegane understand how wildly inappropriate they were. 

Sansa did not doubt she would succeed, for she had already managed to do the impossible. The Hound had always smelled of wine, sweat and horses, but under Sansa's influence he finally cleaned himself properly. It made the kisses much more bearable and for a moment his touches felt almost pleasant. He had never taken care of himself so well in the Lannister's service. The Hound would never be comely, but he could make up for it in manners. Sansa now knew that he would flourish in her service and become a knight in truth. 

The Hound’s love would obviously never reach its fulfilment, such was the tragic fate of all knights. His good deeds would however be rewarded with a song and remembered until the end of time. Surely their escape alone was worthy of more than one song. Would the poets use Sansa’s name? Perhaps they would call her Sansa the Gentle-Hearted or something like that. Sansa giggled lightly at the thought. Artists could of course instead reference her origins. Hopefully, they would not associate her with winter. Better wolves than winter. But singers would probably just simply rave about her looks. Sansa had once heard an enchanting song about a divine beauty with flaming hair. Sansa was of course far too modest to consider herself divine, but she could not blame singers if they ever happened to think of her as such.

Sansa was once again taken by surprise, when the Hound knocked on her doors. And even more so, when he greeted her with a kiss.

“My lord, please… my handmaiden could come at any moment.”

“Not likely. She sounded quite busy to me.”

“Busy with what?”

“Her other duties,” the Hound smirked and gently gathered her hands into his. “We’re safe now, everybody’s busy. What about you, little bird? How have you been?”

“Very well, my lord. I have been working on this,” Sansa showed the man her sewing proudly.

The man was obviously impressed as he stared at her work in wide-eyed wonder. “Three dogs?” he breathed out.

“Yes, my lord. It will be a coat, you see? The winter is coming and you need a better coat.”

“It’s…” He broke off, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s perfect. I could never even draw a dog, I have no idea how you can sew it on with such a detail.”

Sansa beamed at him, her cheeks colouring up with a blush. Sansa was flattered that a man could truly admire her work. Her own father and brothers never really appreciated it and Joffrey’s taunting was something completely different. “Do you like it?” she asked hesitantly.

“Of course, I do, it’s perfect.” The Hound smiled shakily, drawing Sansa to himself. “You are perfect. You’re my little perfect artist.” He let go of her one hand, touching her face instead, fingers lightly stroking her cheek. “I still can’t believe it. Ever since I woke up I’ve been wondering whether I just didn’t dream it all up. And you know… that thing with Boros…”

“You cannot blame yourself for his death, my lord,” Sansa assured the man quickly, amazed at the profound influence she had on the Hound. The man who had prided himself on being the most efficient killer finally got to feel guilt and remorse. Sansa placed a hand on Clegane’s shoulder to comfort him.

“And you? Do you blame me?” he asked carefully.

“No, my lord, certainly not. You did well, my lord.”

“You think so?”

“I do, my lord. Violence is always bad, but it is sometimes unavoidable.”

Sansa could see the relief in the man’s eyes and she was again justly proud of herself. Septa Mordane had always said how difficult it was to restore the sinners to true atonement and Sansa managed it within a single day. The Hound now regretted his violent past, wanted to repent and Sansa would gladly lead him into merciful presence of the Seven. 

“I am… You know I can do other things than just kill, little bird.”

“I know, my lord. I would not be willing to leave with you, if I did not known.”

He kissed her then, a long, drawn-out kiss and Sansa relaxed in his arms. He actually smelled nice this time, which was a rare thing in the Red Keep. Most people in King’s Landing seemed to either favour overpowering perfumes, or smelled of sweat and other unpleasant odours. The Hound’s embrace was still very firm, but it was not crushing this time and the whole sensation was rather pleasant. Sansa decided to commend him for his transformation.

“You look very well today, my lord.”

The Hound’s lip twitched and his embrace loosened. “Spare me your courtesies, girl,” he snapped unexpectedly. “I know what I look like.” 

“You have told me once you can smell a lie. Can you smell it now as well?”

His answer was a frown. He watched her intently, clearly gauging the truth of her words.

Sansa smiled at him with encouraging kindness. “And you smell nice, too. Have you used a perfume?”

Now he even looked uneasily away. “No, no, I just…” he swallowed. “It’s the ointment for the buggering scar. I never use that shit, it was… it’s a mistake. Just ignore it, girl.”

Sansa was startled by the man’s foul language, but she recovered quickly. “It has a very pleasant scent, my lord. I like it a lot.”

“You do?” his voice was tinged with wonder. “I… I thought you could.” He smiled almost sheepishly. “It… it should make the skin feel better to touch as well.”

“As I said, you look very well today, my lord,” Sansa repeated once again.

“Fuck…” He made a strangled sound and buried his hands in the long fall of Sansa‘s hair. “You are so beautiful, little bird, so beautiful inside and out,” he kissed her with anguished need and hunger. “So perfect. My little perfect lady.”

He kept whispering and kissing her, slowly working his way from her mouth to her neck. He liked to do that, though Sansa could not fathom why. Knights kissed ladies on lips, cheeks, forehead or hands. A man could also kiss someone’s ring or feet as a sign of homage and submission, but every kiss in general had its own unique meaning. Kisses on necks had no meaning at all. They did not appear in songs, they were clearly not supposed to happen. But Clegane was no knight from songs, he was more like the beast from the song of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. He took his houndiness far too literally.

Clegane embraced her even tighter. “Little bird, I came to tell you to pack as many of your things as you can. I’ll take them away tonight. Leave here only what’s necessary, so that it goes unnoticed. We will take the rest when we leave. How much do you think you can pack?”

Sansa hesitated. “That depends on how many days I have to to remain here, my lord.”

“One day.”

Sansa blinked at him in surprise. One day. One day. Clegane grinned at her mischievously and she tried to keep her composure in front of him. “Then I can give you most of my things today, my lord.”

“Good. We have to leave all the chests here, little bird, they're too heavy and noticeable. Nobody can notice anything, not even maids.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“I know, you’re my clever little bird,” he kissed her. 

He nodded and hesitated once more. “Little bird, I want…” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know how northerners go about these things. I mean… Tomorrow… Before we leave… will you… will you go with me to godswood?” he asked, his grey eyes pleading with her. “I mean… if you want to. If you don’t, it doesn’t change our plans at all. Just… You know...”

Sansa smiled at him. The Hound was so wonderfully considerate! She would even get a chance to pray once more just before their escape. The new gods had given her Dontos as her protector, but the old gods had given her the Hound and turned him into the best sworn shield she could ever ask for.

“Yes, my lord, I gladly will.”

“You will?”

“Indeed. It is very considerate of you to take me to godswood beforehand.”

The Hound’s mouth twitched and trembled and while his eyes were moist, they did not tear. “I know how these things are important to you, little bird. And I… seven hells, I just can’t wait.” 

Clegane locked his arms around Sansa in a rough, desperate embrace. “My love, my little bird.” He kept kissing her for a long time, whispering again. His hands meanwhile slowly slid down her torso and he even cupped her bottom in his palms through the fabric of her skirts, squeezing it lightly.

Sansa immediately flinched away „My lord, you cannot do that!“ she blurted out.

He did not seem remorseful, instead he gave her an immensely self-satisfied smirk and kissed her chastely. „One day.“

Sansa smiled at the realization. One day. She would sleep just once in the Red Keep and then she would be free. Sansa didn’t resist Clegane’s kisses any longer. His behaviour was inappropriate, but also rather fascinating. Sansa had never known anything quite like his kisses.

“Don’t worry, little bird, I’ll be very gentle with you, I promise. I’ll take it slow and make you sing in pleasure, you’ll see.”

“I will gladly sing for you whenever you want, my lord,” she assured him. A song was a customary reward for all knights. It was a good sign that the Hound was finally having more proper thoughts and wishes.

He smiled at her, a new kind of smile and somehow even more complacent than the previous one. “You will,” he agreed and brushed his fingers through her hair, kissing her once more. “But for now be very careful, little bird. Chirp at everyone whatever they want to hear, just stay safe. I’ll come to you tonight.”

“I shall be awaiting you, my lord.”

When the Hound left, she was still joyous, packing her belongings with meticulous care. Nobody usually looked inside of most of her chests and Sansa was confident she could keep maids away from them. She marvelled at the Hound’s efficiency and dedication to her safety. He was no knight and he was hideous to look at, but other than that he had all the other virtues and fierceness of a perfect sworn shield. The Hound was very right in loving Sansa, he only needed to refine his skills in gallantry. His behaviour had already much improved in a single day, so he would no doubt soon also learn how to worship Sansa from afar, without all the improper touches.

Sansa would have plenty of time to teach the Hound all about knightly conduct and courtly manners during their journey. Her family would soon meet a completely reformed, well-mannered Clegane. Sansa could not wait to see their faces. Robb would be rightly ashamed that she had to save herself without his help and her mother would cry with joy. Sansa would take care of Bran. He was just as old now as Arya had been when… Sansa swallowed. Well, she would never quarrel with him. Even if he was just as insufferable as their sister had been, she would never quarrel with him. She would take care of him and Rickon, while Robb and their mother would be away at war against the Lannisters. Robb was sure to make an alliance with the Tyrells, so she would have to marry Loras Tyrell. He would make a great husband to her. He was so comely and gentle. Sansa smiled at the memory of him. But would she really have to marry Loras? He was not the heir to Highgarden, he was not even a second son. Willas was the heir and while he was a cripple, nothing suggested that he would not be able to have children of his own. Sansa would be betrothed to him, no doubt. That was not so bad, actually. He was probably just as comely as his brother and Sansa had heard he was very kind as well. She would make a great lady of Highgarden.

Would that be enough for the Tyrells? Or would they want more? Mace Tyrrel had wanted his grandson to be a king, he would want it again, one way or another. The Starks had to be quick with their offer and they had to offer the best they had. Sansa was neither a queen, nor an heiress, so she could never be enough. It had be Robb. He had to marry Margeary Tyrell, there was no way around it. Sansa’s mother had witnessed the death of Margeary’s husband, so she must have also arranged for the marriage between the young widow and Robb. It made a little difference that Margeary hadn’t been a maiden, as the Starks needed the House Tyrell’s forces and grain too much. Mace Tyrell had no other daughters, so there was no other option. 

If Robb was to marry Margeary, there would be no reason for Sansa to marry Willas. Another ally then. The Starks needed as many allies as possible. Stannis was already married and had no sons. Who else could Sansa marry? Cousin Edmure, perhaps? Cousin Robert? Theon? Oh no, not Theon! One of the Martells, then? No, that was not possible, either. Trystane had already been betrothed to Myrcella. The Martells hated the Lannisters, but for now they were not likely to ally with the Starks against them. Riverrun was already loyal enough and a Stark was more likely to marry a Tully in the following generation. Cousin Robert then, or Theon. One of them. Theon. Theon had always wanted to marry her and while Sansa’s father would have never agreed to the union, Robb’s situation was completely different. He needed the Iron Fleet, which was too difficult to secure. Theon. Sansa shuddered. Of course it would be Theon. Robb would win his war with Theon’s fleet and Sansa would be stuck in an island full of savages praying to a malevolent, monstrous god. She would have an unfaithful husband by her side and get humiliated by him for the rest of her days.

Sansa had to find a way to persuade her brother that the alliance with the Tyrells needed be even more secured with another marriage. Or she could marry cousin Robert. He was much younger than Sansa, but she could at least shape him to her liking. Just not Theon. Sansa prayed to the Seven for help during her escape, for her family’s health and safety. She prayed that her brother would make her marry beautiful Loras and she prayed for their victory.

When Sansa had all her belongings packed, she stepped outside her chambers. The air in the Red Keep tasted of ashes and as Sansa looked out, she could clearly see the fire line extending across the horizon. The Imp had fired the whole riverfront and it scared Sansa to see the leaping flames of the fire consuming houses outside of the city walls. Sansa’s tummy hurt, but she had to go to the godswood. Dontos wanted to see her again and it seemed like a perfect opportunity to bid her final farewell. She would just explain to him that she found her own way out of the city, so that he would not worry about her. She did not want Dontos and Clegane to know about each other, for that could only breed rivalry between them. And while such things were always exciting to read about, it was the kind of excitement Sansa would rather avoid at the moment. She just wanted to be far away from Joffrey.

Unfortunately, Dontos did not understand. When she told him about her plan, he looked at her with sympathy, as if she had lost her mind. “I’ve spoken to a certain man I know, a good friend to me... and you, my lady. He will hire a swift ship to take us to safety, when the time is right.”

“That is very kind of you, my lord, but as I said, I do not need that ship anymore. I only came to thank you for all you have done for me and to bid you my farewell. I will never forget your kind help.”

“My Jonquil, you wouldn’t leave your Florian here all alone, would you?” He reached out a hand.

Sansa shrank back. “My lord, there is no other way.”

“But there is, I told you we’ll be leaving King’s Landing soon. Together.” Dontos covered his mouth to stifle a burp. “My sweet child, tell me you won’t change our plans now.”

“My lord, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have already made up my mind.”

“No, no, no. I’m your Florian, remember? Come here, my little Jonquil, give your Florian a kiss.”

Dontos swayed toward her, but before Sansa could do anything, there was suddenly a large figure by her side and Dontos was pinned to a tree with a dagger at his neck.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?” the Hound snarled at the fool, his ruined features set into lines of pure rage, his eyes glinting with sheer menace.

“Nothing, nothing, ser!” Dontos whined. “I was only greeting lady Sansa!”

“Oh, is that your way of greeting people? Want to know mine?” he pressed the dagger further into Dontos flesh, nicking the surface of his skin. Blood lazily trickled over the blade.

“My lord, please, please let him go!” Sansa started to panic, tugging at the Hound’s huge arm.

“Don’t worry, little bird, you’re safe now. I’ll take care of this worthless piece of shit. You’re safe with me.”

Sansa bit her lip. Could nothing ever work out according to her plan?


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor really didn’t want to spare Dontos. He hated letting the fool walk away, free and unpunished. But the little bird had those big blue eyes and they were so beautiful and they stared at him with so much trust and hope. And there was this fearful frown on her forehead and it was there because of him. And Sandor didn’t want it to be there, he wanted her to smile. Sansa trusted him and she didn’t blame him even for Blount’s death. Sandor really, really didn’t want to disappoint her. He wanted to be her buggering knight. He wanted to see even more trust and more affection in her eyes. So he let Dontos go.

It took Sandor by surprise when Sansa touched his arm on her own. He cherished the little kiss she planted on his ruined cheek as they parted their ways. It was a kiss just as sweet and innocent as the little bird herself. This girl, this girl more kind than the Mother herself and more beautiful than the Maiden, this northern treasure and sister to a king, this girl had agreed to marry him. She could have had anyone in the world and she chose him. And how absolutely delighted she’d looked, when he’d proposed to her! Sandor sniffed and hurriedly wiped his eyes, scowling furiously. Seven bloody hells, he was acting like a buggering green boy. He felt like one, too. This whole betrothal thing was so new to him and so very welcome, he didn’t know what to do with himself. How eager his sweet bride had been! She hadn’t smiled so much since the death of her direwolf. She smiled now and it was all Sandor’s doing. Sandor puffed up proudly and almost cracked his own smile at the Trant toad, who was passing him by.

Everything about Sansa was soft and delicate and kind. She wasn’t like Cersei, who saw only her own benefit in people. Sansa cared for everyone. Sandor had been worried all night that she would change her mind because of Blount and condemn Sandor as a ruthless killer. She hadn’t, though, and Sandor didn’t want to push his luck further. He had to show her he could be gentle, too. It took all his willpower, but he gentled his touch and kisses to mimic her own. He touched her like some cockless knight of songs, even though he wanted nothing more than to strip away Sansa’s clothes until she was naked before him, every pale, beautiful inch of her. He wanted to touch her everywhere, to thrust so deep inside her that she screamed out his name in pleasure. But instead he courted her like the Tyrell roseboy would court a woman. It was a torture, but it worked. Any doubts she might have had melted away and she was radiating happiness when he proposed to her. 

Sandor wanted Sansa to see him as more than just a sword and muscles. He could be gentle. He could give her innocent kisses and he could teach their children some other things than sword-fighting. Like fist-fighting. Wrestling. Well, alright, not that. Something like archery. And horse-riding. He would play with their girls just as he had with Aenor. They would have many girls, wouldn’t they? He could even braid a girl’s hair, did Sansa know that? At least he used to be able to do that. It was never very pretty, but that wasn’t the point. The point was he wasn’t good for more than just killing people. He could nurture them, too. And he had read probably at least as many books as Sansa had and he knew all her favourite ones, did she realize that? He had to let her know in some very nonchalant way. Use a clever quote, for example. Too bad he didn’t remember any. Sandor wondered whether he should make notes out of the books he saw in her hands most often. It would be too embarrassing if she found out, though.

But mayhap Sansa had already seen more in Sandor than just a good fighter. He had always known that there was a special connection between them. He hadn’t paid attention to the Stark girls at first, but he stumbled upon Sansa during their journey back to King’s Landing. Her eyes were full of fear and just seeing it irritated Sandor as usual. He mocked her lightly and soon left her alone with her comely prince. Sandor overheard her speaking about him, though. He heard her. 

Whenever he’d overheard people talk about him, they either praised his skills and loyalty, or they made some witty comments about his looks and temper. They usually tried to best each other in their colourful descriptions of Sandor’s ugliness. Sansa did none of it, though. When Joffrey dismissed his sworn shield, he wanted to badmouth him for sure, but Sansa disagreed. She, who desperately tried to agree with Joffrey on everything at any cost, she disagreed with him because of Sandor. That innocent, defenceless girl hadn’t been scared of him. It hadn’t been him, who scared her, it had been the old bugger Payne. She said it out loud to her perfect prince. She said it.

Sandor couldn’t get those words out of his head. He treasured them at first, dreamed about them, repeated them to Stranger again and again, but then they started to fuel his anger again. He watched the girl all the way down the King’s road, willing her to look at him without fear and yet she always turned away from him. She never gave him that look. She was the first girl who had said out loud that she wasn’t scared of him, why couldn’t she look at him? Just one look. That wasn’t so much to ask, was it? The more Sandor had been watching her, the more it had been clear to him that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, but it only made things so much worse. He was so eager to speak to her and then when he finally got to be with her alone and escort her, she was disappointed. She didn’t want to be with him, she wanted to be with her perfect Joffrey, who had had her direwolf killed. After weeks of imagining their first moment of solitude, Sandor couldn’t take it anymore and he lashed out.

He was drunk and bitter. He couldn’t tell the girl why he was so frustrated with her, so he told her about Gregor instead, the initial reason of all his frustration. He immediately regretted it, but then she gave him that look. She finally looked at him without fear. She touched his shoulder. She told him that Gregor was no true knight. She, the girl who only dreamed about knights, she didn’t consider Gregor a real knight. His title meant nothing to her. Nothing. Sansa gave Sandor the look he wanted, she gave him even a touch and gentle words. It should be enough. And it wasn’t. He immediately wanted more. Much more. He wanted to hear more of her sweet voice, more of her honesty instead of courteous chirping, he wanted to see more of her kind glances, feel more of her touches. Seven hells, the girl was so much worse than wine, he could never get his fill. Whatever she offered, he always craved more and kept doing one stupid thing after another, just to get from her the reaction he wanted. She drove him crazy and it pissed him off beyond belief.

Sandor would never have called it love, though. And he would never have thought it could be a mutual love. But then she kissed him and everything changed. He wanted absolutely everything now and he would get everything. Nothing could make him go back to being all alone with his wineskin and anger. As long as the little bird wanted him, there was nothing that could stand between them. Not even… Dontos? What was that shit doing there again? And who the fuck had given the fool a raven? Even pigeons were kept under strict watch before a battle and sending a raven out of the city at such times was pure treason, no matter what information the message held. This was just too much for Sandor. 

As it turned out, Dontos had been asking someone for help in getting Sansa out of the city. Dontos tried to deny it, said the whole letter was just a joke, but Sandor didn’t share the same sense of humour and found it much more amusing to see the fool's dead body fall into a ditch. Dontos hadn’t only wanted to rape Sansa in the godswood, he had planned it. He had planned taking her away and keeping her for himself for the rest of her life. Sandor felt sick at the thought. His sweet little bird, lost forever. Sandor couldn’t wrap his head around it. He had always considered Dontos a pitiful, pathetic creature, but he would never have thought him capable of anything but drinking. Sandor prided himself in seeing the world for what it was, but he had failed his little bird again. He would never have thought… Fuck. Even Dontos had wanted to rape and take away his little bird. And if Dontos had been able to actually make such plans… what about the others?

Seven buggering hells, Sandor had completely underestimated the situation. He wasn’t stupid, he’d always known that all the men in the Red Keep kept having wet dreams about his Sansa. Sick bastards. But this… It was a miracle she was still relatively unharmed and even a maiden. Everybody wanted her. The Imp constantly spied on her, Joffrey and the Kingsguard got hard just from seeing her cry, Littlefinger looked at her with the same lust he gazed at the Iron Throne and now Dontos… Even Stannis was said to have a penchant for redheads, he would want to keep Sansa all for himself. Varys was the only remotely tolerable man out there. 

Sandor had sworn to keep Sansa safe and he would do just that. His little bird. He just needed to be more careful, less trusting. The best would be to lock Sansa away where no one could possibly hurt her. Unfortunately, Sandor didn't think she’d where be happy that way. For some strange reason Sansa still enjoyed the company of people and suffered in isolation. Her safety was a priority, but her happiness was no less important, so Sandor had to find other ways of protecting his little bird. Like killing all the men of the world. That actually wasn’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. Sandor spent a blissful moment imagining a glorious manless world. Nobody would think of hurting his Sansa again. With the exception of women like Cersei. Fuck, whom all did Sandor have to kill?

When Sandor entered the stable, he was greeted with a loud whinny.

“That beast of yours is restless again, dog!” Trant discovered.

“He isn’t restless, he’s pissed,” Sandor barked. “Everyone with an ounce of wits is pissed when there’s smoke instead of air to breath.”

“I don’t mind it,” Trant announced proudly.

“’Course you don’t. I was talking of those with an ounce of wits.”

Trant chuckled stupidly. “It’s the smell of a nearing battle, I thought you’d be the one to appreciate that, dog.”

“A good battle smells of steel and blood, not some Imp’s shit,” Sandor snarled. “Only cowards fight with fire.”

“It’s no matter in the end. We’ve got a last full night and day off with Mandon, so we’ll enjoy the city while we can. You’re free tonight, too, aren’t you? You could join us, if you want.”

“Not bloody likely.”

Trant shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Sandor could finally turn his attention to Stranger. The burning of the riverside was badly timed. Sandor needed his warhorse to be calmer than usual, not the opposite. All the stabled horses were going mad with the fear of fire, but Stranger was the most vocal about. Sandor tried to do his best to assure his horse that everything would be fine. And Stranger believed him. He could sense that Sandor wasn’t afraid of this fire, he could sense Sandor’s unaccustomed happiness and as usual Stranger quickly started to mirror his master’s mood, ears alert in anticipation. Stranger didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew it was important and couldn’t wait for it. 

Most of Sandor’s and Sansa’s possessions would be brought onto the ship in the following hours, but the courser would leave with Sandor. There was no way Sandor would part with his Stranger and leave him at the smuggler’s mercy. Unfortunately, they would have to get out of the city in a boat through the sewers, which wasn’t exactly the best location to bring neither a new wife, nor a warhorse. But Sandor hoped he would find ways how to distract both of them, while the smuggler rowed. They wouldn’t actually spend much time in the sewers. Before Sansa and Stranger recovered themselves from their surprise, they would already be on the sea, near the Iron gate, where the view was obstructed. It would then take two hours to get to the actual ship, but it wouldn’t be the first time Stranger had to stay on a small boat and he would manage it just as well as before. Stranger was the best, smartest horse in the world, there was no doubt about it. He had a better head than most two-legged fuckers in King’s Landing. Stranger nuzzled Sandor’s face affectionately and Sandor returned the gesture with a hug.

“You’ll have a new mistress, Stranger,” Sandor whispered to him. “You have to protect her, you understand?”

Stranger snorted softly.

“I mean it.”

It didn’t take long for the stallion to calm down completely and the handsome horse even decided he was suddenly hungry, so Sandor left him alone. He needed to clean himself a little before he would go to see his bride. It was the lovers’ last night in the Red Keep and Sandor wanted to see more of Sansa’s smiles. Soon they would be together forever.

While Sandor was trying to make himself presentable, he couldn’t help but wonder what Sansa would be wearing tonight. She had to be in her nightgown, hadn’t she? She wouldn’t have a corset on, nor those extra layers of fabric. Just a nightgown. Sandor would be able to feel the softness of her teats. Fuck, how would he ever resist so much temptation? As if it wasn’t enough he was rock-hard whenever kissing her. Had Sansa felt it? Had she liked it? Did she want to kiss him there as well? Sandor’s cock was the only good-looking part of the man’s body, so it made sense she would. She was probably wet when thinking about his hardness. No other woman had ever been wet for Sandor, but no other woman ever kissed him, either. Sansa was different. And she had been all flushed when he had kissed her and she smelled like seven heavens. That was supposed to be a part of woman’s arousal, wasn’t it? She’d been wet for him after all. She’d wanted to spread her legs for him and let him claim her forever. She’d… well… It didn’t matter anyway, because Sandor had to clean himself again, the fourth time in a day. This was getting ridiculous. Sandor frowned at his tired cock. Sansa probably hadn’t felt it at all, since his crotch had been covered by his armour and she’d been wearing a corset. And she wouldn’t like his cock either, because it’d be far too big for a delicate maiden. Sandor winced in the painful realization. Sansa was a maiden. He’d hurt her. There was no way around it, he’d hurt her. 

And would Sansa even recognize how nice his cock actually was? She had enough brothers, but most ladies weren’t as well acquainted with their brothers’ bodies as Cersei. Sansa had seen Dontos’ cock, when the man was too drunk to even dress himself properly, but she looked away then. What if… seven bloody hells, what if Sansa hated Sandor’s cock?! Sandor stood frozen in cold horror for a long moment. It wasn’t possible, was it? Sandor knew he had to make Sansa sing in pleasure to make her love every part of his body. He wanted her to lust after him. There was only one tiny little problem in this ingenious plan. Sandor had never learned how to please a woman. He never really tried. Men always bragged about their prowess in bed, but their stories were full of shit just like all the ribald songs. Women got their pleasure from being slapped, men said. They all just wanted to get raped, the proof of a man’s strength was the only thing that satisfied them. No, every woman actually achieved a release when she had her breasts fondled. No, she wanted a man to lick at her cunt. No, she needed to have her feet massaged. Oh no, none of that, all a woman needed was to feel a man’s seed inside of her. 

Sandor was afraid that a woman’s pleasure perhaps didn’t exist at all and the whole idea was just whores’ myth spread out so that customers paid more. Cersei fucked everything that even remotely looked like her and if she could, she’d shag a mirror, too. She certainly enjoyed it, but Sandor didn’t think she got the same kind of release out of it as men. Sandor had heard the queen scream in bed, but it wasn’t any more convincing than a whore’s mummery. Cersei’s derived her pleasure from her power and Sandor had nothing to learn from that.

Sandor had no clue how to bring pleasure to his sweet bride, but he decided it was not a reason for worry. It was much more important that he’d do anything for Sansa. She’d show him best by herself, what she enjoyed and how she liked to touch herself. Sandor couldn’t wait to hear all about Sansa’s dreams. Did she think about Sandor, when touching her soft, warm flesh? Did she gasp his name in ecstasy? Probably not. Sandor chuckled. The little bird never called him by his name, she’d probably chirp at him all her thanks and my-lords even as he filled her with his seed. Her courtesy had irritated Sandor just a few days prior, but now he found it irresistible. She was such a poised little lady, it would be even more rewarding to make her wild with passion. She needed to let go of her restraint, at least with him. Actually, only with him. Sandor would do anything Sansa wanted, he just hoped she would want to look him in the eyes, while he moved inside her. He wanted to see every emotion in those alluring blue pools. Would it be possible to kiss her then? Sansa was tall, but still so much shorter than Sandor, he’d have to bend a lot. He wanted to kiss her while claiming her. He’d find a way.

Sandor was still contemplating their wedding night as he knocked on his bride’s doors. When he heard a sound inside her chambers, he quickly took off his gloves and smoothed the hair around his face. But Sansa didn’t open. It almost sounded… was it a sob?

“Little bird?” Sandor rasped in concern.

This was definitely a sob. What if she was not alone?

“Lady Sansa, please open the doors.” The words sounded dumb even to him.

Sandor couldn’t identify the sounds in Sansa’s chambers, but he didn’t like them one bit.

“Little bird, it’s Sandor, open the doors. Now!” His tone went quickly from soft to commanding.

Sandor heard some strange sound coming from her fireplace. Fire. Fire.

“Sansa!” Sandor knocked on the doors more. “Open the door, or I’ll break through them. Sansa!”

Finally. When Sansa opened the door, her face was pale, eyes wide, fear visible on every inch of her graceful frame. Sandor quickly looked around, grabbing her hand tightly.

“Little bird, what’s happened?”

“Nothing,” she cheeped timidly. She lied.

“What did you want to do with fire, little bird? What’s happened?”

Sansa‘s chin quivered and her eyes flooded with tears. “Nothing.”

Sandor stroked his thumb across her cheeks, wiping her tears away. “Sansa, my love, what is the matter?”

Sansa opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Sandor noticed that her right hand was completely covered in blood. So much blood. Sansa's blood.

“Fuck,” he swore. “What’s happened, little bird? Where are you hurt? Was it Joffrey?”

“No, nothing like…” her words disappeared into a sob.

“Where are you hurt, little bird?”

“I am not…”

“Stop it!” Sandor was starting to panic. How long had she been bleeding? How long could such a slender, dainty body go on bleeding? She was so heartbreakingly pale. “Sit down on the bed, little bird, and show me your injuries,” Sandor instructed her.

“No!”

Sandor didn’t have time for discussion. He had to get the bleeding stop immediately at any cost, he couldn’t risk losing his little bird like this. He gently pushed Sansa to sit on her bed, but then he got a glimpse of a fabric near the fire place. It was Sansa’s nightgown and when he picked it up, he could clearly see small blood stains on it. Was she naked under her dressing gown? And the blood…

“Is it your moonblood, little bird?” 

Sansa broke out in loud sobs, her body shuddering with each one, but Sandor felt a relief wash over him. Moon blood. Good, that was good. A woman couldn’t bleed out from her moon blood, could she? Still, Sansa’s reaction seemed odd to him.

Sandor enveloped her in a hug and kissed her forehead. “Are you in pain, my love?” 

“They will make me marry Joffrey now,” Sansa cried into his chest.

“Little bird, we’re leaving tomorrow, you’re safe from Joffrey.”

“Theon then. Robb will make me marry Theon and have his children,” Sansa shuddered. “No matter what I do, they will always make me marry someone horrible.”

Sandor ran his fingers through Sansa‘s hair and stroked her back. “Little bird, what are you talking about? This doesn’t change anything about our plans. Tomorrow will be no less beautiful for it.” Sandor lifted Sansa's hand from his chest and placed an open-mouthed kiss into the palm of her hand, cradling it to his good cheek. “You have your blood once every moon’s turn, don’t you?”

Did she really think he wouldn’t want to marry her tomorrow just because she was having her blood? How could she believe that?

“I do not!” Sansa whimpered. “I have never flowered. Not until…”

Sandor’s eyes widened in surprise. She hadn’t flowered? How was it possible? She was a maid of sixteen, some high-born ladies already had two children at her age. It was the common folk that could have children only much later. Or was it different in the North? Cersei had assumed that Sansa was either too proper to talk of these things, or she was pretending not to have flowered in order to avoid a wedding with Joffrey. Even Pycelle had agreed, saying that Sansa was obviously a woman grown and didn’t look barren. They planned the wedding anyway. But Sansa wasn’t lying. Not to Sandor.

“The Maiden has protected me,” Sansa sobbed. “But now Robb will make me marry Theon and I will have to lay with him and give him children and… and…”

Sandor had quite a few things to say about Sansa’s gods, but this wasn’t the right time to introduce her to all his glorious blasphemy. Sandor had seen enough violence not to believe in the buggering mercy of gods, but he believed in the power of a human body. During the sacking of King’s Landing he had been wounded too badly to even move, let alone to actually fight. But he felt no pain, no fear, his body shielded all emotions away from him and it kept going as long as it had to. It only took one step into safety for Sandor to be completely overcome by all the pain and horrors. He soon lost consciousness and didn’t regain it for days. It wasn’t god’s mercy, it was simply how bodies worked. It was the same for many other men, horses and for Sansa as well. She had obviously feared her wedding with Joffrey long before she herself even acknowledged it. She had long had woman’s face, teats and hips, but despite all that her body protected her from having to bear children to Joffrey. And once she knew that she was safe, she was to marry Sandor, she immediately relaxed and her body gladly started to prepare itself for Sandor’s seed. She really wanted him. It was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Sandor hugged her to himself even tighter. 

“Little bird, nobody will ever make you do anything. You have agreed to an arranged marriage once, you have done your duty. Your brother has made things here only worse for you, he has no right to choose a husband for you.”

“You think so, my lord?” she looked at him, full of hope.

“Of course, little bird. You think I’d let that half-baked eel marry you?” Sandor ran his hand up and down her back, calming her. “You’re mine, little bird. You’re safe with me.”

“But once we get to Winterfell, they will make me marry.”

Sandor smiled into her hair. Sansa was such a clever little lady, she knew it. She hadn’t said it out loud, but she, too, feared the Young Wolf would either try to annul their marriage, or have Sandor’s head for it.

“We can wait, little bird.”

“Wait?”

“We can stay in Essos and communicate with your family through letters. Once they agree to your terms, then we can head to Winterfell.”

“But…” Sansa pondered on the thought for a moment. She seemed to change her mind. “Would it be possible?”

“Of course, little bird. I have enough coin, you’ll have a nice place to live in. Much better than the chambers here. You’ll be safe, far away from all the worries. You can even have a lemon garden, if you want.”

“Is it bad that I do not want to marry Theon, even though it could help my family?” Sansa asked, her voice muffled against Sandor‘s chest.

“Not at all. There are other, much better ways to help your family, little bird, we just need to make your brother see it.”

She finally stopped shaking.

“Now, little bird, what were you doing with fire?”

“I… I did not want anybody to see… Cersei would use it to humiliate me and even if we leave…”

“Cersei will never know,” Sandor assured her. “Do you have another nightgown, little bird?”

“I do, my lord, one of them looks just the same, but it is already packed.”

“Well, you’ll put that on and I’ll take away the bloodied one, so that nobody sees it.” He kissed the crown of her head. “Are your bedsheets bloodied, too, little bird?”

Sandor could feel, how stiff Sansa went at hearing his words. Why was she so ashamed of her own blood? If she had none, it would be worse. Sandor didn’t like the thought of Sansa bleeding either, he didn’t want her to suffer, but there was nothing shameful about it, was there? Sandor had bled enough times to know something about it.

“No,” she finally whispered.

“And do you need something, little bird? I can bring you anything.”

“I… I have everything.”

Sandor seized Sansa’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks while he kissed her soundly. “You’re not alone, my love, you know that, right?

She nodded.

“You can tell me anything, little bird. Are you in pain?”

Another nod. Sandor didn’t know anything about moonblood, but he had enough experiences with pain, so he hoped he could help Sansa at least in this regard.

“I’ll bring you something for it,” he assured her. 

“I… I should clean myself and dress.”

“Of course. Do you want me to help you?”

“No!” Sansa blurted so quickly Sandor had to smirk. He didn't understand her bashfulness, but her blush was very fetching.

Sansa gave him a pointed look. What did she expect? Did she think he would go away, just because she wanted to undress? Like that was ever going to happen. Sandor decided to turn away to give her privacy. There would soon be no turning away. Sansa’s moonblood probably meant she wouldn’t want him to claim her on their wedding night, but that didn’t mean the couple couldn’t enjoy themselves in some other ways. Perhaps it was a good thing. Sandor wouldn’t otherwise be able to restrain himself and he’d only scare his little bird.

After Sandor carried away most of Sansa’s possession and brought her the medicine, she fully embraced him for the first time and clung to him as if her life depended on him. She was still shaken. She didn’t even complain, when Sandor laid her gently across the bed and lay alongside her, pulling her to himself, kissing her. It really wasn’t inappropriate, considering they would be married within a few hours. Sandor whispered to her tender, reassuring words, repeating to her how he would always keep her safe and protected. While he stroked her hair and spoke to her about a peaceful life they’d have in Essos, she lay with her head on his chest, slowly falling asleep to the sound of his raspy voice. She trusted him more than her own family. She was his little bird and now she’d be his little wife. Everything would be perfect. It had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's generally not recommended to take biology lessons from the Hound.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa felt miserable. Her tummy tied itself into a painful knot, her hands were shaking and her head pounded. She wasn’t able to eat a single bite the whole day. Luckily nobody really paid any attention to her and all her suffering went unnoticed, but she still could not wait to get out of the city. She would be free soon. At least until Robb wedded her to Theon. He would have no reason to wait now, would he? Robb had shown no mercy to Sansa, when he could exchange Ser Jamie for her and save her life, why would he show her mercy where her marriage was concerned? Robb was the king, the best king of all, he needed to make kingly decisions. He had to secure the support of unreliable Iron Fleet. It was the right thing to do. And it was so, so wrong. Theon had neither honour and trustworthiness of a good ruler, nor kindness and love for Sansa as a good husband should. And when it came to his people… Sansa shuddered. How could Robb do that to her? After Joffrey, after all Sansa had suffered?

She was suffering even now. Sansa had thought she knew all about flowering. It was supposed to be a magical experience for a woman, blossoming into her adulthood. Moonblood had a lot to do with pain, of course, it was the price to pay to the Mother for the joy of motherhood. Woman had to suffer through three pains to become a mother, the first with her flowering, the second on her marriage bed and the third pain on the childbirth bed. Only a good woman who submitted herself to the Mother in humble obedience and fully embraced the pains of motherhood, only she deserved all of the Mother’s blessings. And for a good, pious girl the first flowering was supposed to be an elevating experience.

Sansa had always considered herself a good girl, she had been determined to be the best mother of all, to suffer through her flowering and bedding without as much as flinching in pain. She wanted to be blessed in her marriage and motherhood. But she had failed at the first opportunity. When she had found blood on her thighs, she panicked, imagining the humiliation Joffrey would put her through. She was suddenly convinced he would decide to marry her immediately. And then there was the prospect of being married to Theon. And with all the blood, pain and horrible future ahead of her, Sansa… Sansa failed. She didn’t pray to the Mother, she didn’t even pray to the Maiden, she forgot all about her gods and manners, she just wanted to burn all the evidence, hide away from the world, make it all disappear.

The Hound had saved her again. He held her, he took care of her. Sansa didn’t understand it. Woman’s flowering was an event connecting maidens to the Mother for the first time, but it was solely a women’s issue and something that should never be mentioned in front of men. They all found the topic distasteful. When one of the maids in Winterfell had once bled through her skirt, Theon pretended to vomit upon noticing it and Robb was horrified that he’d touched the girl’s hand and felt unclean as a result. A true knight would have never talked about moonblood with Sansa, he would have never touched her during her flowering. He wouldn’t have hugged her, nor helped her take away her bloodied night gown. The Hound was no knight. And sometimes it was not a bad thing. Sometimes it could save her life.

Sansa wondered what Clegane thought of her now. Had he stopped loving her because of the previous night's events? She had acted like a foolish little bird indeed. It was not a behaviour of a lady. It was not a behaviour of a Stark of Winterfell. Sansa spent the entire day in prayers, asking the Mother for forgiveness and guidance. She did not want to displease the gods, she was determined to suffer through her woman’s ordeal with humble dignity. She even had to change the bloodied piece of cloth in her smallclothes once before a full day of her flowering had passed, so her bleeding and accompanying pain were obviously significantly worse than it was common. Sansa was probably suffering through the worst flowering possible, but she did not complain. Once she’d recovered from the initial shock, she bore her pain with fortitude and grace.

Everything went wrong for Sansa that day. Sansa felt dirty and clumsy. It was the only day she desperately needed to dress herself all alone. And she did, but her hands were shaking so much that she spilled water on her dress and had to change immediately. It was so embarrassing. She couldn’t let the maids rummage through her things, she couldn’t let them see her in her smallclothes, either. She had only two casual dresses left in her chest and neither was her favourite. She purposefully left the ugly ones, so that she wouldn’t miss them in case something went wrong and she had to escape suddenly. She had to choose either an old grey and yellow dress, which didn’t suit Sansa’s complexion at all, or the other one, an ugly muddy brown dress Cersei bought her after the arrival to King’s Landing. Sansa was convinced the queen chose the unflattering cut on purpose. Sansa quickly decided to wear the grey dress with yellow embroidery as it was at least bought by her mother and it was more comfortable, too. It was old, but Sansa skilfully hid the imperfections behind a black shawl. Unfortunately, the colour combination made Sansa look even more miserable.

The pain was getting worse and worse. After a day spent in prayers, Sansa decided to take the medicine from the Hound. It could not be considered hiding away from the pain, as she had fully accepted and embraced the gift of womanhood from the Mother. No, it wasn’t that at all. The Hound had brought her no frivolous medicine like the milk of the poppy, he brought her the heart’s eye powder. At least that was the northern name. Southern soldiers indeed used the powdered mushrooms to dull the pain in the midst of battles, but that was not the original use of the concoction. The heart’s eye was a gift from the old gods, it brought followers even closer to gods than a weirwood tree and many people feared it for this reason. The old gods could show a way to their follower, they could reward a man just as well as punish him. Southerners of course never got to experience these effects of the heart’s eye and the Hound perhaps didn’t know about them at all, because he did not understand the language of the old gods. Only the followers of the old gods knew the true power of the heart’s eye. It was therefore very fitting for Sansa to use it on the day of her first flowering. She had prayed extensively to the new gods, now was the time to understand the will of the old gods better. And if they inflicted even more pain on her for her misbehaviour, she would accept it with deep humility. This time she would not fail.

The Hound insisted that she should put exactly one spoon of dried mushrooms into one cup of water, no more. She was then supposed to drink it after three hours. Sansa obeyed the man’s instructions carefully. She was not at all educated in the matters of cooking, so she was herself amazed by her remarkable talent, when she prepared the concoction perfectly. She was certain a single cup would neither subdue the pain in her tummy fully, nor get her closer to the gods, so she mixed four spoons of mushrooms into four cups of water and waited to turn her hourglass exactly three times. She did not want to risk leaving it for too long, for she heard some stories about incompetent cooks who forgot about time and thus ruined the meals. Sansa succeeded in her first attempt and she could not help to feel a little proud of herself. The concoction had the same unpleasant odour as it used to have in Winterfell. Sansa had actually never been allowed to drink it, but now she was glad for it. It tasted even worse than it smelled and t tasted even worse and in the end Sansa had to down it with wine. She didn’t feel her pain dulling at all, so she drank the entire portion. To her disappointment nothing happened, so Sansa turned to prayer again.

Sansa prayed for her safe escape, for protection from all harm and marriage with Joffrey and Theon and Tommen and the Imp and Tywin Lannister and Stannis Baratheon and all the bad people. She felt sick, but she prayed for her beloved family and for the Hound. She was deep in her prayer when she heard a beautiful sound of dogs barking in the garden. It was as if they were laughing. Why were they laughing? Laughing at the Lannisters, no doubt. It was so funny Sansa had to laugh with them. There were so many tones in their laughter, it was almost a song.

“M’lady, are you well?” Sansa heard Shae speak. 

Sansa stared at Shae. “You are so beautiful,” she gasped.

“Ah… thank you, m’lady. Do you feel well?”

“Yes, of course, I am just happy that you are so beautiful!” Sansa gave her handmaiden a bright smile.

“Well, you’re sure not the only one,” Shae told her with a mischievous grin. “Will you want to take a bath tonight, m’lady?”

“No, thank you, Shae. It will be all for today. This is a simple dress, I will undress myself with ease.”

“Very well. Good night, m’lady.”

“Goodbye, Shae.”

Sansa packed the rest of her things, admiring each object. There was this brown dress, how beautiful it was! It was so wonderfully brown. Sansa had never seen such a vivid colour. She could almost feel the colour, she could smell it. Sansa stared at the dress for a long moment in awe. Beautiful. Everything was so beautiful around her and getting more and more colourful with each passing moment. Was this the heart’s eye? Was this how the old gods saw the world? She could clearly feel their presence now. It was so warm and loving.

After a long while of bathing in the soothing presence of the old gods, Sansa heard her door utter a melodious knock.

“Knock knock,” Sansa smiled cheerfully at the door.

“Little bird, let me in.”

“Knock knock,” she stroked the door gently. It was a very kind door, always doing its best to protect her from Joffrey.

“Little bird, open the door,” the door told her.

Sansa nodded and obediently unbarred the door. She was always obedient, the gods couldn’t be displeased with her, could they? She sensed their warm, comforting presence. No, the gods were not displeased at all. In fact, she was their favourite follower.

The door filled with a huge figure of Sandor Clegane. He seemed to be hiding a cloak under his cloak, he was wearing a new shirt under his armour, new gloves and old scars. He looked like a painting.

“How is my sweet bride feeling tonight?” he stepped closer to her, embracing her immediately, touching his cheek to hers and inhaling deeply. “Are you still hurting?”

“You are so beautiful!” Sansa breathed out.

“What?” the man straightened up in surprise.

Sansa touched his scarred cheek. There were so many colours in his scar. People had various skin colours, but he had all of them on a single cheek. All of the colours. It was like magic. The Hound was the most colourful man she had ever seen and it was mesmerizing.

“Sansa, what are you doing?” he asked, perturbed.

“I just love looking at you, feeling you,” she stroked his cheek. It felt like an embossed leather pouch. So beautiful.

“Fuck,” his voice broke and his embrace tightened as he crashed his lips to her wide-opened ones. “You’ll feel all of me soon, little bird,” He kissed her all over her face, his kisses hot and demanding, as his hands tangled in her hair. “Every inch of me. All of me.”

The door behind the Hound winked at Sansa mischievously and she smiled at it in response. “Knock knock.”

“What?” The Hound eyed her suspiciously. 

Sansa felt the gods’ presence clearly now and she wanted more. She craved to touch the weirwood tree to feel the gods’ blessings fill her completely. “Will we go to godswood now, my lord?”

Clegane didn’t answer. “Little bird, have you drunk wine by any chance?” 

“Yes,” she admitted, tilting her head to look up. 

“How much? Sansa, if you’re not feeling yourself...”

“Half a goblet.”

The Hound laughed a beautiful laugh, a symphony of hundred rusty saws. “That’s fine then, I guess, even for such a little bird,” he kissed her forehead. “Wine’s making my lady less restrained, is that it? Are you sure you’re feeling yourself enough to take such a step, Sansa?”

“I am feeling myself more than ever, my lord. We’re yet to go to the godswood and I feel blessed already!”

The Hound stared at her for a long moment and Sansa could see him swallow. He had this bulge on his neck like all the other men and when he swallowed it moved. Just like that, it moved. Why did men have this thing? Did they have something hidden there? Like hamsters in their cheeks? Sansa touched the bulge and giggled at the strange feeling, but the Hound lifted her hand and kissed it. He took in a deep breath. “Sansa, I…” he swallowed again. “Seven hells, you have no idea what you’re doing to me, girl.”

She knew exactly what she was doing, she was trying to inspect his strange neck. When she tried to touch it with her other hand, he put her arms around his neck, bringing his lips to hers. “My love. My beautiful, beautiful princess,” he nuzzled his nose against her cheek. “You know I’ll always take care of you, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. You’ll have anything you want. Anything.”

Did he have food hidden in that bulge? Did he have a cake there? 

“Fuck,” the Hound groaned and lowered his head to kiss her ear. Always the ears. He always went for her ears. Did he want to eat them? Sansa never tried eating ears, but she was hungry, so she tried to mimic his actions, producing a deep guttural moan from him. “Fuck. Seven bloody hells, you’re such an eager little bird today. Come, my love,” he pulled her to himself. “We’re going, or else I’ll take you here and now,” he kissed her once more. “We have to be careful in the hallways, so you’ll do exactly as I say, won’t you?” he stroked her cheek ad he grabbed all her things with a single hand.

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa agreed. She still wanted to know what he had hidden in his neck, but that could wait. She wanted to touch the weirwood tree as soon as possible. She scuttled after the Hound, but before they got out of the Red Keep, the Hound suddenly stopped in his tracks and looked somewhere. Sansa only then noticed Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon on the other side of the hallway and she waved at them with a bright smile behind the Hound’s back. The men were obviously drunk, but their armour was so shiny it looked like a sun’s mirror. “Wait a moment, little bird,” Clegane whispered to her. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

Sansa nodded and while the Hound went to speak to his friends, she used her time to study the intricate pattern of the spider web on the wall. Was it made out of sugar, or cream? It certainly looked tasty, but before Sansa decided how to proceed, the Hound reappeared.

“You’re safe, my love, don’t worry,” he kissed her lightly. “The Red Keep has long needed a bit of cleaning. You understand that, right?”

Sansa nodded, looking pointedly at the spider web. She was still hungry. The Hound resumed walking quickly and tagged Sansa along. Sansa was confused by all the changing surroundings and gods’ singing. When she could finally focus at least some of her senses, she was in the godswood. Her head was spinning and she felt confused.

“M’lady,” two men kneeled in front of her. Everybody just wanted to bend the knee to her lately. Was it because she had finally become a woman, or because her brother had become a king? “I’m Ealdwyne Mollen, the second son of Byam Mollen and an older brother of Hallis Mollen, the guard at Winterfell. This is my son, another Byam Mollen. I have been exiled as a smuggler by your lord father. I’ve brought great shame upon my family and the punishment was just. I ask for nothing, m’lady, but I want you to know that I’ve always remained loyal to the Starks. My family and I wish to serve you, m’lady, as best as we can in these times of need.”

Sansa was hungry and she just wanted to go and talk to the weirwood tree. “Thank you, Ealdwyne,” she could not forget her manners.

“Ealdwyne and I fought together side by side during the Robert’s Rebellion, my love.” Clegane added, looking around with another self-satisfied smirk at the word ‘love’. “He’s made some mistakes, but he’s an honest man. I know it’s not ideal, but he’ll be standing witness to the ceremony. I assure you he can be trusted, my love,” he stroked her hair affectionately.

Sansa felt there might have been a point somewhere which she was missing. There were too many sounds, too many colours surrounding her. “We will see then,” she decided to answer mysteriously. “You can stand now, Ealdwyne. And you, too, Byam.”

“M’lady, standing witness to your marriage is the greatest honour of my life and the house Mollen. I beg forgiveness, but I must ask whether you truly want to marry this man. If you change your mind, we’ll bring you to safety all the same, I assure you.”

“Marry?” Sansa repeated. “Ah, marry.”

Marry Clegane. What a strange idea. How did the man come up with it? Did the gods want her to marry the Hound? They’d clearly chosen him as her protector. She had prayed. She had prayed to the new gods as well as the old. The new gods then wanted Dontos to keep her safe, while the old gods preferred the look and fierceness of the North and gave her the Hound. She did feel Clegane had kept her safe. He had been the only one to do so.

Wait, if Sansa married, she would not have to marry, right? She wouldn’t have to marry Theon. She would have her Hound at her side and he would keep her safe and they would wait in Essos until Robb agreed to their terms. It was an ingenious plan. It was a gods’ plan. The old gods had even made Clegane agree to the wedding, their power was so immense, reaching to the south. Marry Clegane. What a marvellous idea!

“Little bird?” Clegane asked with anxiety in his voice.

The weirwood tree gave Sansa a discontented look. Oh no, would she displease even the old gods now? Sansa quickly grabbed the Hound’s large paw. “I do, indeed, my lord. I want to marry this man.”

Clegane’s faced was transformed by a wide smile, his grey eyes twinkling with an unknown emotion. “Little bird…” he touched his forehead to hers. 

“Aye, we should get going with it then, shouldn’t we?” Ealdwyne interrupted him.

Everything was so colourful it hurt Sansa’s eyes and the world was moving so fast, while her mind suddenly felt slow and unresponsive. Among all the voices of gods she could faintly hear Clegane, she could feel him gently push her closer to the weirdwood tree, but she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. His face was so colourful. She would have the most colourful husband. She could hear Ealdwyne, too. Who was he again? The whole world was talking at her all at once. Could the Hound make it go away? He always knew what to do.

“Will you take this man, m’lady?”

What was the weirwood tree saying?

“Will you take this man, m’lady?”

“Yes, yes! I take him!” Sansa assured the tree. “I take this man.” If she married, she wouldn’t have to marry. She would be safe, so brilliantly safe.

The Hound’s mouth twitched madly, he swallowed again with that bulge in his neck and took her hand in his, kneeling with her if front of the tree. This was good, wasn’t it? She had wanted to touch the tree.

“I don’t know how to pray, little bird,” Clegane whispered to her. “You’re more than I could ever ask for. I don’t know how to pray for your safety and happiness, but I’ll devote my existence to securing it for you myself. I'll protect you with my life, I'll keep trying to make you happy and smiling from this day until my last day. All of me is yours. It always will.”

He’d said something nice, hadn’t he? Sansa wasn’t sure, because she had to stand up and she was desperately trying to find the ground. Where had it gone? Sansa felt dizzy. So many colours and no ground under her feet. That wasn’t right, somebody should fix it. Could the Hound fix it? Perhaps she should panic. Yes, she should definitely try to panic. Sansa squinted her eyes, trying to focus. Somebody took her cloak and Clegane put his much bigger one around her shoulders. It was heavy. Everything was heavy. Everything was too much.

Sansa felt the Hound’s mouth touch her own, she felt his strong arms lift her up in the air. She was safe with him, she knew, but she felt too many things, saw too many colours and heard too many sounds. It overwhelmed her mind completely.

She understood only one thing before she fainted. She'd won. She wouldn’t have to marry after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not safe to take lessons from Sansa, either. You never know what dog you could end up marrying.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa woke up after the best sleep she’d had in ages. Somewhere far back in her mind she knew there were problems that needed to be solved, but in her drowsy state she didn’t want to worry about anything. She just wanted to lie there in her bed a little longer, safe and comfortable, with her cheek on the Lady’s furry stomach, listening to her steady heartbeat. 

“Sansa,” she heard a raspy whisper.

A large hand stroked her hair and back, but Sansa didn’t open her eyes. She wanted more of this soothing warmth, so she embraced Lady tighter.

She felt a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. “Good morning, little bird. Or good afternoon, I should say.”

Sansa blinked. Lady? Sansa opened her eyes and looked up to meet silvery eyes smiling back at her. What was… what?!

“Ser…” she gasped into Lady’s… no, no, Lady was dead. It was the Hound, she was lying with her face on the Clegane’s very hairy chest. Naked chest. By the Seven, she was lying with a naked man in a bed!

“How is my wife today?” he smiled at her.

“Wife?” she squeaked. 

Sansa tried to move away from the man, but his hand held her firmly. “Yes, my beautiful, beautiful wife,” he rubbed his hooked nose against her delicate one and kissed her. “How do you feel, little bird?” 

“Wife?”

“I was worried about you, little bird,” he stroked her hair. “You seemed very affected by your moonblood yesterday... and then when you slept through the day…” he shook his head. “Never mind. Here, drink, some water, little bird,” he held a cup to her mouth and Sansa obediently emptied it. She was indeed very thirsty. “Do you feel better now that you’ve rested?”

“Why are you calling me your wife, my lord?”

“I like saying it,” Clegane grinned. “What do you want me to call you?”

“My lord, I am not your wife!”

The Hound’s hand froze in mid-movement. “You don’t remember the wedding, little bird?”

Sansa’s eyes widened. The wedding. The tree. The colours. The old gods speaking to her. The wedding. The hunger. The wedding. The bleeding. The wedding. She swallowed.

“I thought it was a dream,” she answered feebly.

Clegane smiled and resumed stroking her hair. “Feels like that to me, too,” he kissed her and suddenly flipped her on her back, looming over her. A helpless yelp escaped Sansa’s mouth.

It was horrible. Sansa was almost naked, her body bare save for a flimsy shift, smallclothes, stockings and garters. Clegane meanwhile only had his breeches on and the upper half of his body was completely naked. Without his clothes the man’s body looked even bigger than usual. Why was he naked? Did he want to frighten her? It worked. Why was Sansa naked? Who had undressed her? Why? What did Clegane want to do to her? Sansa glanced at the man’s bare arm and nearly fainted at the sight. She was certain his bicep was thicker than her thigh and she couldn’t wrap her head around it. It had always been obvious that he was heavily muscled, but nothing could prepare Sansa for the reality of it. 

“How do you feel, Sansa?” Clegane asked. His eyes were boring into hers with a frightening intensity.

Sansa had seen many tall men in her life. Sworn shields generally tended to be some of the largest people in the Seven Kingdoms and the Hound wasn’t the tallest one Sansa had ever seen. But he was certainly the most beastly one. No wonder people called him the Hound. Neither Robb nor Jon had hair on their chests, they had very reasonable amount of muscles and they looked like normal men were supposed to look. The Hound had monstrous muscles bulging everywhere, he was horribly hairy and covered in scars and thick veins protruded all around his arms. Was it an illness? Sansa didn’t have a single protruding vein on her body, it wasn’t normal to have them. It was ugly. It looked dangerous. 

“My love?” the Hound asked, concerned. “Are you in so much pain?”

“No… I just…”

Sansa felt completely overwhelmed. And scared. Such a man could crush her, or strangle her with so little effort he wouldn’t even have to strain his muscles. The thought sent chills down Sansa’s spine and the Hound’s gaze suddenly trailed down to her chest.

“Fuck,” he gasped.

Sansa realized in horror that her nipples protruded through her thin shift. Sansa tried to cover them, but the man snatched her hands away and cupped her breasts in his own huge hands.

“It’s alright, little bird,” he said huskily, kissing her with terrifying, raw hunger, kneading her breasts with his palms. “It’s alright. You’re affecting me, too, Sansa. Much more than that,” he growled against her mouth, rubbing his pelvis against her thigh. “It’s as it should be. It’s perfect.“ He lowered himself and stared at Sansa’s bosom unabashedly. “So perfect.” 

His eyes seemed incredibly dark and wild. Sansa closed her eyes, not wanting to see what was hidden in them, but she could still feel his warm breath on her throat, she felt him kissing her breasts through the fabric of the shift, nuzzling his face between them. She heard him groan loudly.

“So bloody perfect,” he murmured into her chest.

Sansa lay frozen in shock, letting the man to do as he pleased. Was he pleased? He had to be. Sansa was a married woman now, it was her duty to please her lord husband. She had to obey the Hound, make him happy and let him do with her body whatever he wished. It was his duty to bed her. It was their shared duty, but it made it no less horrible. The Hound knew nothing about the refinement of courtly love, but he didn’t know how to treat a lady in his bed, either. What kind of a husband was he, anyway? Sansa had asked the old gods to show her the way and they made her marry the Hound. She’d been determined to obey gods’ will without questioning, but her determination wavered now. Why the Hound? Why had the gods made her marry him out of all people? Clegane was looming over her, his weight pinning her to the mattress, while his eager hands and mouth roved all over her body. He had accepted their marriage immediately and right away consummated it. The gods made a decision for him, too, and he accepted their wish without hesitation.

Clegane did what every good man was supposed to do. He fully embraced the gods’ will and immediately found joy in it, even if it went against all he had aspired for. He’d spent his entire life working his way up to become the most accomplished fighter in Westeros and once he had finally become a member of the Kingsguard, he gave it all up for the marriage to Sansa. He had wanted to change sides, yes, he’d wanted to serve as Sansa’s sworn shield to get her to safety and then serve the Starks. He’d loved her as a knight, but not as a husband. Clegane was certainly hoping for a commanding position, this time just fighting for the right cause. He was never planning on a wedding. But the old gods used their magic and orchestrated a wedding to their taste. It was the gods’ will, yet another test that changed everything. The newlyweds suddenly became outcasts. The gods had made the Hound give up the most prestigious position of a knight for a marriage and he didn’t utter a single protest. So why was it so difficult for Sansa? She had to do the same. She had to humbly accept the gods’ will and become a good wife to the Hound. She had to make him happy and give him strong heirs. Was that what the gods wanted her to do? Or was it a punishment? Sansa had always done her best to pray to all gods and everybody admired her kindness and beauty, how could the gods give her to such a beast of a man?

“You’re the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to this world, girl,” Clegane murmured against her skin, kissing every exposed inch of her skin. “You know you’re mine, right?” he looked her into her eyes.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Sandor, little bird. I’m Sandor to you now.”

“Yes, Sandor,” Sansa whispered. 

“Say it again.”

“Sandor?”

He took her mouth in a ravenous kiss and held her head in place so she could not move it. He was loud. His breathing was loud, his groans were loud, his whispers sounded like threats. His calloused hands were too rough, his body too heavy. This was Sansa’s reality now. She’d been so good and this was how the gods repaid her for it. The Hound cupped her breasts again. 

“Let me see you, little bird,” he started to push her shift down. “I want to see you.”

Tears welled in Sansa’s eyes. She knew lying with a man was a humiliating and painful ordeal for a woman, but this was so much worse than anything she’d ever imagined. It was so unfair, after all she had suffered.

The Hound suddenly tore himself away from her. “Sansa, are you hurting so much?”

“Yes,” Sansa cried.

“Seven bloody hells,” he swore under his breath. “Is this normal for women, little bird? I’ve already asked them for a maester, but there’s none on this buggering ship.”

Ship? Sansa blinked. Ah, ship. She was on a ship. Alone. With the Hound. Her husband. Heading to Essos. With the Hound. Her husband.

“My little bird, what can I do for you?” He kissed her tears away. “What do you want? What do you need?”

It was even worse when he was kind to her. Sansa had never considered the Hound a pious man, but he obeyed the gods without a single complaint and it shamed Sansa that she couldn’t accept her new destiny so readily. The Hound had always been willing to obey Joffrey, too, so perhaps it wasn’t so difficult for him to follow the path of the old gods, once he found a higher power than the king. It was Sansa’s doing, had the gods forgotten about it? She had brought the man to the old faith. And this was how the gods repaid her.

“First you have to eat,” the Hound decided. “And drink. You’ve lost so much blood you slept through almost an entire day, little bird, you need to get more energy. We’ll think of something else then.”

Sansa nodded. Eating sounded much better than what they had been doing. Unfortunately, Sansa hadn’t realized that the Hound would look even bigger when standing up. Their cabin had a tall ceiling, but Clegane couldn’t straighten up completely anyway and his figure seemed to be filling the entire space and there was no hiding away from the sight. There was nothing comely about the Hound. He did indeed look like a killer, not a knight. He had those horrible muscles and black hair everywhere, even on his stomach. Sansa realized the man’s ancestors must have been giants. That was the only explanation why he and his brother didn’t look normal at all. What a sad life it must have been for the man, living at court, where looks were always an important topic of conversation. He lived among many beautiful, noble people, while his own face was devastatingly scarred and his body looked like that of a wildling smith, not a Westerlands’ lord. No wonder he was always angry. Despite his looks he’d helped Sansa as if he was the handsomest of knights. He had saved her from Joffrey, risking everything for her. Sansa suddenly felt a need to hug her lord husband to make him feel better. She did not, of course, but she decided she would make sure the Hound, Sandor, never felt ugly again. She’d proved already she could be a great influence on his manners. And if they were both good, perhaps the gods would have mercy one day and even improve his looks. It happened in several stories after all.

Sansa was still deep in her thoughts as she sat up, but then she noticed a stickiness between her thighs. She could even smell the blood. Her sheets were bloodied and Sansa starred at the large stain in sheer horror. She was married now, she should have expected it. Sansa had of course always known good women bloodied their sheets on their wedding nights, but seeing her own maiden’s blood was too much for her to bear. She’d had so many dreams about her wedding. It should have been so beautiful, with all her family round her. She should have married a beautiful, kind prince, not the Hound. She had always been so good, it shouldn’t have been like that. Sansa’s tummy was hurting much more than the day before, revealing it wasn’t only the pain of her moonblood that was plaguing her, but also the dreaded pain of the loss of her maidenhead. 

The Hound was immediately at her side, kneeling in front of her.

“Little bird, are you alright?” he asked, his voice full of concern and worry.

Her tears were the only answer. The Hound noticed the stain on her bedsheets, a clear proof of her lost purity, and his eyes widened at the sight.

“Seven hells, Sansa, is it normal to bleed so much?”

“Yes!” Sansa whined. “I’ve always been good.”

Sansa had seen bedsheets on many weddings, but they were never bloodied so heavily. She had been clearly much purer than any of those brides. And this was how the gods repaid her.

“It’s alright, little bird, it’s alright,” the Hound stroked her hair. “You’re lucky, you know? There’s no one with more experience in bleeding than me,” he smiled at her encouragingly. “Here, Sansa, drink this, I think it’s better for you than wine now.”

Sansa was so thirsty she drank the whole goblet greedily. It was something healthy, she knew, but it tasted of lemons, so she liked it. 

“I need to wash myself, my lord.”

“Of course, little bird, I’ll wash you,” Clegane tried to gather her in his arms.

“No please, my lord!” She pushed him away. “I’ll wash myself. Please!” She started crying again. Was there no end to her humiliation? 

“Little bird, please don’t cry. Whatever you want… just don’t cry, alright? Don’t cry. Everything will be fine.”

The Hound stroked her hair silently for a long time, allowing her to calm herself slightly. She was finally able to leave her bed. She didn’t understand how the Hound had got them on a ship, but he obviously hadn’t provided them with more than one cabin. It was so small it didn’t even have a bathtub. Sansa washed herself quickly, but she didn’t know what to do with the bloodied water then. It was so embarrassing. Everything about womanhood was embarrassing, everything about being married to the Hound was humiliating. And painful, so painful. She’d lost her maidenhead without even having a chance to make her last Maiden’s prayer. Did the old gods do this to spite the new ones? But why were the gods so merciless to her? She’d always been so good. She’d always prayed so much and so well.

Clegane sent for a maid, who changed the bedsheets and took away the bloodied water. When the maid looked at Sansa, her eyes were filled with so much sympathy and pity that Sansa started crying again, shaking wildly. Once the maid left, Sansa wanted to dress herself up, but the Hound stopped her.

“None of that,” he kissed her. “You need to eat now, little bird, you’ve lost too much strength.”

Before Sansa could utter any protest, he lifted her, positioned her sideways on his lap and enfolded her in his arms. He hugged her tightly to himself and nuzzled her hair, nibbling her ear. Luckily, he had enough of his canine behaviour and rather picked up something from the plate. 

“A lemon cake?” Sansa blinked. 

“What else could you begin your marriage with?” The Hound laughed. He fed her the cake as if she couldn’t use her hands, but the cake was so good Sansa even didn’t mind too much. It was strange that Clegane knew what she liked. A good wife would have known these things about her husband, too. And Sansa wanted to be a great wife, so she started asking her lord husband about his tastes. It seemed to surprise Clegane, but he did tell her that he preferred meat to anything else and he ate a lot of it in a day. He didn’t really like cakes, but when she asked, he smiled wickedly and kissed her, plunging his tongue into her mouth. He said he didn’t mind tasting cakes that way. His actions made the dialogue even more awkward, so Sansa decided to politely change the topic. 

She learned the Hound liked riding and spending time alone with his horse in a forest. He liked dogs and wanted to have one. His favourite colour was the colour of Sansa’s eyes. Sansa learned the Hound had had a sister Aenor, who died after Gregor hit her, she fell and injured her head, dying in Sandor’s arms. Aenor would have loved Sansa, Clegane claimed. He seemed so sad when remembering his dead sister that Sansa hugged him tightly. They sat there in a long embrace and Sansa didn’t mind feeling the man’s muscles this time. There was nothing soft about him, he was scary with his hard, indomitable body, raspy voice and wild temper. But he had loved his family and lost it like Sansa had lost her father and sister. He mourned Aenor still, like Sansa mourned her father and… Sansa couldn’t help but cry, when she realized she’d never had the relationship with Arya like the Hound had with his sister. And now it was too late. She’d failed Arya as a sister. But the Hound comforted her, telling her that the fights with Arya weren’t her fault. It was normal among siblings at that age, he said, she couldn’t blame herself for it. It was such a relief, such a blessed relaxation of defences, to find herself understood. Sansa could tell her lord husband about the guilt she felt over her family’s fate and she knew he wouldn’t judge her. In the end they spent hours talking and hugging and eating and it was so, so strange, because Sansa actually didn’t mind. She felt as if huge weight was lifted off her chest and she was finally safe. She could breathe.

The Hound showed her the ship, too. It wasn’t as big as the ship that brought Myrcella to Dorne, but Sansa was so modest it didn't bother her in the least. The ship seemed clean enough and the captain, Ealdwyne Mollen, was very respectful to Sansa and he asked her several times, whether she was alright. He assured her that if she ever needed any help, his crew would always be on her side. Sansa was mortified, when she realized everybody knew she had lost her maidenhead the previous night. Sansa knew there was no shame in lying with her husband, but she felt embarrassed nonetheless. She was glad when she got to be alone with the man again. It was strange being married to the Hound, but it felt safe.

 

It was strange being married to Sansa. The maid had glared at Sandor with the most venomous look, when she found the bloodied bedsheets. Two crewmembers threatened him, Ealdwyne threatened him, Ealdwyne’s son threatened him and even the ship’s cat arched its back and hissed at Sandor as if he was her worst enemy. Everybody thought Sandor had hurt his little bird. Luckily it didn’t take long to Ealdwyne to understand, but it pissed Sandor off anyway. He didn’t want to spend the first day of his marriage explaining himself to others. He didn’t want to spend it with listening to Sansa talking to countless crew members instead of him, either. She was a strange little bird. She seemed to actually care about the problems of people she’d never met before, she listened to them patiently and smiled at them with a genuine smile. How could Joffrey ever let such a treasure slip out of his hands, Sandor would never understand.

Sandor regretted taking Sansa out. They could have lain in their bed and he’d have perhaps persuaded his blushing wife to take off the buggering shift. At night, when Sansa had fallen asleep with exhaustion from loss of blood, Sandor had taken off only her dress and the corset, for which she had thanked him. She never forgot her manners even in her sleep. Sandor didn’t want to take her shift off without her consent, but perhaps it was a mistake. He had waited too long, he needed to touch her body without any barrier. Even now her breasts strained temptingly against the fabric of her too small dress and Sandor acutely remembered how they felt in his hands. Her soft teats fit snugly in his hands, as if they'd been made just for him. How would they feel in his mouth? Sandor was determined to learn it as soon as possible. Sansa seemed to be in less pain and he’d make her feel even better. He’d give her entire body the special attention it needed. 

Sandor knew Sansa was a pious maiden and all maidens feared and hated being taken by men, but so far Sansa had enjoyed his touches despite herself, she even made some delightful sounds when he’d made her feel how hard he was for her. And those tight little buds of her nipples just begged for his mouth. Sandor couldn’t help but be a bit proud of the reaction he elicited from his wife. She needed him just as much as he did, she just didn’t know her body yet and she wouldn’t get used to intimacy by avoiding it. There was no need to sleep in a buggering nightgown or a shift tonight. Sandor would keep his wife warm just fine by himself.

It was almost evening, when their ship met with another one and about a third of passengers was exchanged in the middle of a sea. Some people from the King’s Landing wanted to go to Maidenpool, while some people from Maidenpool were heading to Essos. Sandor had never seen anything like it and he had to admit Ealdwyne had created quite an impressive business in his exile. Hopefully, the Young Wolf would know how to make a good use of it.

Sansa was sad that she couldn’t go to Maidenpool, too, but her spirits were much improved, when Sandor suggested to her that she could use the opportunity to send the first letter to her family. She wrote the longest letter Sandor had ever seen and it was so beautifully written it made Sandor a little envious. He wanted to have a letter from Sansa, too. His sweet wife explained her situation in length, described all the tyranny which she had suffered at the hands of the Lannisters and painted Sandor as her shining hero. Sandor didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Sansa, but he struggled to keep his emotions at bay when reading those lines. He knew Sansa cared for him, he still couldn’t quite believe she actually married him, but reading such poetic description of himself was too much for him. Sansa made Sandor write a letter, too, and though his one was very brief and factual, he hoped the Starks would understand he was honest in his intentions. Sansa’s hand was shaking as she sealed the letter, but even then the delicate beauty radiated with happiness. She could freely communicate with her family now and the realization moved her to tears. 

And so the letter was sent and there was no turning back. Soon the Starks would learn their perfect little princess had married the monstrous Hound.


	8. Chapter 8

Marriage was a very confusing thing. Sansa did enjoy the conversations with her lord husband as well as his hugs. She’d spent so much time stressed over her safety, she couldn’t help but seek out the safety of Clegane’s embrace herself. The problem wasn’t the Hound’s looks or his lesser station, it was his eagerness that always ruined each blissful moment. A simple embrace was never enough for Clegane, his hands immediately started to roam over Sansa’s body and his hungry lips kept seeking out hers.

Sansa did her duty well. She had long known that married couples shared their bed at night and women had to suffer through their couplings when a man moved between a woman’s legs. Sansa had feared the act with Joffrey, but she hadn’t realized how horrible it was in general. The Hound could never keep his hands away from Sansa and even in public he at least held her waist possessively. When they later lay in their bed, Clegane’s calloused hands caressed up and down Sansa‘s body, the Hound pressed his heavy body into hers and once he even touched her smallclothes. The man felt no shame and he laughed when Sansa uttered a shriek in horror. He loved to nibble at her skin, he spent unbelievable amount of time just playing with her hair, burying his face in it and brushing it with his fingers. And he paid even more attention to her breasts. He had touched them so many times through the fabric of her clothes that by now he probably knew their shape better than Sansa did and there was nothing new to learn. But he still kept caressing her breasts reverently. He was at his happiest whenever Sansa touched him of her own accord and he himself never really stopped touching her. Even when they were just talking, he couldn’t help but nuzzle her neck or hair and at night Sansa always had to sleep cradled in his arms. 

It was quite touching how much the Hound took care of Sansa. He kept asking her several times a day whether she still had her moonblood and he seemed disappointed with her answer every time. But Sansa hadn’t been in pain since the day she had lost her maidenhead and now she didn’t even bleed anymore. She still didn’t feel perfectly clean, so her moonblood was not yet over completely, but it didn’t bother her at all. Sansa definitely didn’t want to drink anything to ease her discomfort again. She had to decline moontea every time she saw any of the maids. Sansa knew the concoction was used to avoid pain on the marriage bed and her own mother drank it regularly, but Sansa didn’t want it. She had behaved very wickedly once, when she secretly took a sip of her mother’s moon tea out of curiosity and it made her stomach turn. After her recent experiences, Sansa certainly didn’t want to ever take any medicine again. She was able to withstand the frequent couplings with her husband thanks to the power of prayer, she didn’t need anything else. She had displeased the gods before and she wouldn’t do it again.

Whenever Clegane did indeed move between her legs, Sansa could feel his manhood rub against her thigh. Sansa had seen several men without their breeches on and even though she always averted her gaze, she knew how the flabby flesh of manhood looked. Every manhood was unappealing, but soft and small enough not to be very noticeable from afar. And yet again, everything was different about the Hound. His entire body was too big, too hard and far too muscled and his manhood was no exception. But Sansa fulfilled her marital duty every night without disdain or complaints and gods heard her prayers and made the pain bearable. Sansa’s body did bear a few bruises, but she knew the Hound was trying to be gentle with her and that was what mattered to her. She was a Stark, she could be brave. 

The Hound never forgot to inform and show everyone that he was Sansa’s husband. It was a bit tiring, but Sansa was shocked to learn he wasn’t the only one. Sansa accidently saw another couple on the ship in their most intimate moment and she even saw the man touch his tongue to his wife’s lips. It was revolting. At least the Hound had enough sense to kiss her chastely in public. Nevertheless, the man’s kiss looked like something the Hound would do in the privacy of their cabin. How was it possible? Did other people do such obscene things, too? Perhaps Sansa hadn’t known everything about kisses after all. Perhaps the Hound was right. Sansa had doubted her husband… and he had been right all along. She had judged his actions unfairly. The gods wanted them to be married, they expected them to kiss like that, too. She had been wrong.

After the new revelation Sansa did everything possible to correct her mistakes and become the best wife to her lord husband. She still felt she was doing something wrong. Despite his apparent happiness, the Hound seemed frustrated. Whenever Sansa asked, he just grumbled that she didn’t need to worry and that he was fully capable of waiting. He obviously didn’t like sailing and he seemed to grow more and more agitated with every passing day. It was fortunate that Clegane agreed to train with Ealdwyne’s men and he spent a good portion of day engaging in strenuous exercises and sparing. Sansa faithfully watched her husband as he trained. It was a little scary when Clegane flipped and tossed two large men at once without breaking a sweat, but she supported him anyway. Whenever he felt especially victorious, which seemed to be all the time, he came to her for a celebratory kiss. It was embarrassing to kiss her husband in front of all those men, but Sansa obediently submitted to his attentions. It made him happy. And Sansa wanted him to be happy.

The Hound proved to be a very generous husband. During the five days Sansa had been married to him, he surprised her by gifting her with two beautiful gowns and cloaks and several pieces of jewellery. He had also given her an exotic parasol for the sunny days in Essos and it was one of the most exquisite things Sansa had ever seen. Sansa had enjoyed such surprises, perhaps a little too much. But it was not improper to receive presents with grateful affection and sincere appreciation, was it? 

It was about time she owned a proper dress fitted for an adult woman anyway. Sansa particularly loved the colourful gown adorned with yellow flowers. When she looked into the mirror, she rejoiced once again.

“You like it, little bird?” Clegane’s smile mirrored her own. 

“Oh, yes, my lord, so very much! The bright colours make it feel as if I was wearing the sunshine!” She kissed her lord husband happily to show him her gratitude, but sure enough, it wasn’t enough for him. His hands immediately slid over the curve of Sansa’s back, lingering at her waist before settling on her bottom. 

“My shining little bird,” he murmured into her hair. “But I think you’re still missing something.”

“Am I?” Sansa looked up. The Hound himself was wearing a new jerkin that made him look like a proper lord and with his eyes devoid of anger, Sansa didn’t mind looking at him. He was ugly to look at, but he was a knight at heart.

“Turn around, Sansa, and close your eyes.”

Sansa immediately obeyed and waited, eager to know what the new present was. She was hoping for another parasol. She’d never need a such thing in Winterfell, but she couldn’t help but feel a parasol was exactly the elegant accessory she needed. Even the queen had none of those.

But when she felt the Hound’s hot breath on her ear and a coldness against her throat, Sansa was happy, too. She needed a new necklace just as much.

“Open your eyes, little bird.”

“It’s beautiful, my lord!” she exulted before she even looked into the mirror. The three-strand pearl necklace was a little too bulky for her, she saw then, but Sansa was no maiden anymore and she had to dress more maturely now. The golden filigree pendant was embellished with rare black diamonds and it was quite impressive. It however didn’t suit Sansa’s complexion as much as the other jewellery the Hound had bought for her.

“You like it?” The man breathed out. “It belonged to my mother and then to Aenor.” He stroked her hair. “It’s yours now, little bird.”

“Thank you so much, my lord I… I look like a Clegane now,” she said, trying to please her lord husband.

“No, little bird, you’ll always look like a Stark, just with a husband, who’s Clegane.” He looked over her dress. “Or one that really likes yellow.” 

She kissed her husband, relieved by his answer. “I’ll wear the necklace with pride, Sandor.”

She liked his family heirloom more now. Pearls suited her, didn’t they? Sansa would make it work. The necklace would serve her well to further enhance her stately dignity. Sansa looked at herself in the mirror and she felt a surge of confidence sweep over her. She was a woman grown now, a sister to the King in the North and she’d let the world see it. She and Clegane were to dine with two Myrish merchants, who were trusted friends of Ealdwyne. Sansa had already spoken with them extensively and there were still many questions to ask. She was a married woman, a woman of experience, she could be more daring in her inquiries. She could even freely disagree with those men. It was not improper.

The ship was heading towards Myr and the couple therefore wanted to know everything about the current situation in the region and possible investments. The Hound had won a great fortune in the Tourney of the Hand and he was determined to buy a grand palace for Sansa, but she wasn’t very fond of the idea. Myrish region had an abundance of fertile land and after the Riot of King’s Landing, rich fields seemed much more appealing to Sansa than palaces. The winter was coming and hunger was coming with it. In her dress fit for a lady and almost regal jewellery, Sansa was determined to impress the merchants. And impress she did. She asked clever questions, she charmed the men with her mature beauty, she made them laugh at her witty remarks.

“May be I should call you a little wolf, instead of a bird.” Clegane grinned at her after their dinner. Sansa could see the Hound was proud of her and the realization made her giddy. It had been a long time since someone had been proud of her and it felt good to be appreciated again. 

“This is my new lucky dress,” Sansa decided.

“Lucky dress?”

“Yes. I feel lucky in it, I’ll wear it when we go to see the house for the first time, too. It’s a proper dress fit for a woman wedded and bedded.”

The Hound’s mouth twitched. “We’ll go to see the mansion as soon as we arrive to Myr, little bird. That’s in three days. The narrow sea happens to be quite narrow.”

“I know that, my lord.”

“And you want to present yourself there as a woman wedded and bedded?”

“Of course I do. You will be by my side, Sandor, won’t you?”

“Sure I will,” he rasped in her ear. “I can’t miss my chance to present myself as a man wedded and bedded, too,” he stuck out his tongue cheekily as a dog, or a child would do. He still had a long way to go in regards to his manners. But before Sansa could educate him about proper behaviour, he playfully bit her neck and hugged her to himself.

“Seven hells, I can’t wait for your flowering to end, little bird,” he said, nuzzling his face to her hair. He kept doing it all the time, unfortunately even in public.

“I am looking for it, too, my lord,” Sansa agreed.

“You are?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well then…” His hands cupped her bottom again. “We could start now by taking off this dress, what do you say?” He asked huskily.

Sansa nodded obediently. “Just give me a moment, please, my lord.” She gestured towards the screen. She did relieve herself, but she mainly used the opportunity to quickly change into the night gown. The Hound always gave up on trying to undress her much quicker when she had already changed for the night. But it didn’t seem to work this time. 

“What the fuck are you wearing, little bird?” he snapped as soon as he saw her.

The Hound was sitting on their bed, half-undressed, frowning at her night gown as if it offended him. Sansa didn’t understand his anger. He hadn’t been angry at her since they married and she had been so good to him, how had she displeased him?

“My nightgown, my lord husband.”

“You don’t need to undress yourself, Sansa, how many times do I have to tell you I’ll do it for you?” His voice sounded even rougher than usual.

“It is very kind of you, my lord, but I assure you, I can manage quite well by myself.”

“Not next time, you understand? I want to undress you myself.”

Sansa nodded. 

“Come here, girl.”

Sansa bit her lip nervously and carefully approached her husband. 

“No married woman needs a nightgown. It’s no clothes for a woman wedded and bedded, as you say.”

“I… I did not know that.”

A shift. She had to somehow convince her lord husband she could sleep in a shift. Many people didn’t have any night gowns after all. A shift was made of a lighter fabric, it would please her husband. Sansa stood between the Hound’s legs and when the man pulled her roughly against him, her breasts collided with his chest and her legs were suddenly touching his groin. The Hound was almost as tall sitting down as she was standing up and while Sansa usually felt safe in his arms, it was different this time. She had obviously displeased her husband and she wasn’t sure what he’d do. Would he hit her? 

He surprised her by kissing her. It was a harsh, bruising kiss, but it was a kiss nonetheless, so hopefully he wasn’t very angry at her. He’d never hit her, it was unbecoming of her to think he would do it now.

“You’re so beautiful, little bird, how can you be ashamed of such beauty?” he murmured.

Sansa felt the man’s hands slide down her back and to her horror she realized he was trying to push down her night gown. She wasn’t wearing anything under it safe for her smallclothes and while she knew it was her duty to let the man do whatever he wished, she panicked and tried to hold the nightgown in place.

“Stop it, Sansa,” he growled against her ear. 

“My lord, please, I’ll change into my shift. I will…” Her voice wobbled.

“No, you won’t. You don’t need this bloody thing anymore.”

Sansa felt the fabric tear. No, no, no, he was ripping her nightgown apart, he couldn’t do that! Sansa tried to squirm out of the Hound’s embrace, but he didn’t allow her to move. She wanted to voice her protests, but Clegane’s hungry mouth silenced her. The only thing Sansa managed was to cover her breasts.

“Stop hiding yourself from me, my love.” The Hound rasped. “Strop resisting me.” He grabbed her hands, baring her breasts completely to his view and touch. Sansa stood without clothes in front of him, her body covered only in a veil of a blush and she felt more than naked, she felt raw and vulnerable. Clegane’s gaze was so intense it was almost palpable against her skin. But looking wasn’t enough for the man. Slowly, with his eyes following his hand, he caressed Sansa‘s breast. His touch was very light, almost revering and there was a look of awe and wonder on Clegane’s face. It all felt completely surreal. And as if the moment wasn’t humiliating enough, air slipped around Sansa’s skin, pebbling her nipples. The Hound noticed it immediately and he seemed disturbed, taking his hand away and just staring at her in disbelief. Would it be possible to pretend nothing had ever happened? Sansa could put on a shift now and…

“Sansa,” he said, his voice even lower than usual.

The Hound’s large hands suddenly lifted her up and tossed her onto their bed. Sansa cried out in shock, but before she even realized what’s happening, he was climbing atop of her, kissing her wildly. His breath was hot on her skin, his eyes full of a blatant hunger. A hunger for her. It was terrifying. He was terrifying. He was her lord husband, he had a right to her body, she couldn’t disappoint again. But he was everywhere. He devoured her mouth, her throat, her collarbone, he gripped her flesh roughly, he pressed himself against her with a whole new savagery. Finally he took a moment to catch his breath and Sansa quickly tried to cover her breasts, but Clegane didn’t allow it and placed her arms around his shoulders instead.

“Stop it,” he rasped at her, kissing her cheek. “There’s no shame in wanting your husband, Sansa.”

His palms cupped both her breasts while his mouth meandered from Sansa’s mouth, down her neck, and then traced around the curve of her breast. Sansa couldn’t help but cry out when he took her taut nipple deep into his mouth, sucking it between his teeth, humming with satisfaction. His hand meanwhile molded her other breast to his fierce touch. Sansa didn’t even know what she felt anymore. Were they supposed to do this? Was it forbidden or was it their duty? Sansa bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“It’s alright, little bird. It’s alright. You affecting me even more than that.” He grabbed her hand and put it on his crotch. “You feel it?”

All Sansa could feel was the man’s muscled manhood and it was terribly embarassing. Was he concerned that she disliked the hardness of his body? The Hound had been tormented for his looks and Sansa was determined to make him forget about it. He had saved her, he took care of her, he behaved as a handsome knight.

“I don’t mind it, Sandor,” she assured him.

The Hound grinned. “That’s a good start, little bird.” He rubbed her hand against his manhood, groaning. “That’s a very good start. You’ll learn to love it, too, little bird.”

His groans and panting increased. Clegane was always loud, but it was different this time and it concerned Sansa a little. He was grinding his crotch against her thigh with an increased fervour. His groans and panting got even louder and all of his movements became more urgent. And then with an inhuman sound escaping his lips, he finally stilled and Sansa could feel his muscles pulse against her thigh. After a moment he collapsed onto the bed, taking Sansa with him and he lay there motionless, just panting heavily as if he’d run a great distance. Sansa grew worried. Was he ill? Sansa caressed Sandor’s cheek gently, hoping to ease his pain.

“Sansa…” he whispered finally and opened his silvery eyes, strangely dark with a new emotion hidden in their depth. “My love, you’re so… fuck…” he groaned, rubbing his face with his large hand. “The real thing will be even better than that, little bird, I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t understand, my lord.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” he assured her with a dreamlike smile, gently stroking her hair. “You’ll understand soon enough, little bird. Very soon.”

 

When they finally arrived to Myr, it took them two more days of horse ride to get to the mansion they were interested in buying. Sansa wanted to travel with Sandor and see the estate for herself and Sandor was glad for it. He wouldn’t want to leave her alone in Myr anyway. He saw the way all the men looked at her and he didn’t like it one bit. She was his. His to love, his to protect. Sansa was so delicate and Sandor felt as if her moonblood took forever. He had thought women bled just for four or five days, but apparently he’d been wrong again. At least Sansa didn’t faint anymore and she looked healthy again.

Sansa was indeed a strange little bird. The more Sandor knew about her, the more he wanted to know. She wasn’t just courteous, she meant it. She meant it when she was worried about Ealdwyne’s crew, she meant it when she cried after hearing about a bunch of Myrish commoners butchered by Dothraki, she meant it when she smiled at people around her. Sandor had always known she was incredibly pure and kind, but he hadn’t realized the full extent of it. And he hadn’t realized how much of her father Sansa had in her, either. She didn’t want a palace, she wanted to have fields instead. And when Sandor had happily devoured a beef leg and wanted to show her how far into the sea he could throw it, she was absolutely horrified. “Winter is coming,” she woofed at him and ordered the cook to make a bone broth for the crew. Sometimes it seemed she was the captain of the ship. Neither the crew, nor Sandor had dared to throw out any food since then. Sansa was a little wolf after all. Sandor’s little wolf.

Sandor had to admit the region surrounding the city of Myr was beautiful, full of colours and picturesque small farms. There were low hills covered with golden meadows that looked more like exotic gardens. It was a perfect place for his little bird to heal after the horrors she had suffered in King’s Landing. Even the mansion looked like something out of the fairy tale. It was no palace, but it had its own charm and Sansa was immediately bewitched by it. It was a nice, warm place made for comfort, not defence. The couple could spend a week there before they decided whether to purchase the place and fields surrounding it. But as far as Sandor could see, his wife had already decided. 

“It’s so beautiful, Sandor!” Sansa chirped happily. “Have you seen those windows in the bedchambers? It’s a piece of art! Everything here is a piece of art. Look!” She stopped to admire the balcony railings.

“I’ve seen the bedroom alright. Nice big bed just as I like it.” Sandor grinned at her, not really knowing what was so special about the windows, or the balcony. His attention was elsewhere. Sansa’s eyes twinkled with joy, her lips were blooming with a smile and even the setting sun caught in her hair, gifting her with a flaming halo. Sansa was chirping about their new home, but Sandor didn’t hear her words, instead he stared at her speechless, spellbound by her ethereal beauty. He woke up only when she almost fell off the stairs.

“Are you alright, little bird?”

Sansa massaged her ankle and nodded. “I am well, my lord, thank you. I am merely a little tired.”

Sandor kissed the crown of her head. “Of course. You have to rest now, my love. I just hope your flowering will end soon.”

“Oh, it has ended already,” she told him. “I am just not used to spending two days on horseback. That is all.”

It took Sandor a moment to realize the meaning of her words. “You…” his voice betrayed him. “You’re not flowering anymore?”

“No, I’m not,” she dazzled him with the most charming smile.

Sandor stood frozen to the spot, his heart thundering in his chest.

“Sansa… I… you’re not in pain anymore?”

“No, not at all. I feel amazing today. Look around! Look at all that beauty!”

Sandor looked at her and nodded stupidly. “Sansa, my little bird, you’ll let me take you tonight then? You’ll let me…”

“Of course, Sandor,” Sansa squeezed his hand. “You are my husband. I am yours, am I not?”

“Mine,” he agreed, crushing her against him. “Mine,” he kissed her with a desperate need. He scooped her giggling form into his arms and strode towards their bedchamber. She was his.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa enjoyed being carried in the Hound’s strong arms. He was so gentle with her, she felt more protected than the crown jewels. When she rested her head against his hard chest, she could sense his steady heartbeat even through the layers of his jerkin and she liked that a lot. She didn’t even know why, but she liked feeling the reassuring thud of his heart against her cheek. It was the only thing that helped her against nightmares at night. It felt right.

The Hound kissed the crown of her head again, murmuring something into her hair, and he carried her over the threshold of their quaint bedchamber. He didn’t lie Sansa down on the bed as she’d expected, instead he placed her tenderly on her feet and pulled her head back, looking deep into her eyes.

“Little bird,” he whispered to her. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks and nose until he finally claimed her mouth in a fierce, demanding kiss. His chest rose and fell in harsh ragged breaths that never ceased to scare Sansa. She’d already figured that whenever the Hound’s breathing got louder, he wanted her to be naked, which was an unsettling thought to say the least.

Touching her naked body seemed to make Clegane happy and he deserved to be happy. He’d done so much for her. He’d sacrificed everything for her, he’d saved her life more than once, he listened to and even valued her opinions. He obviously did his best to be a good husband to Sansa. It wasn’t his fault he was so devastatingly ugly. Thanks to him Sansa was always surrounded by so many beautiful things she sometimes almost forgot about his disfigured face and brutish body. And now she would live in the most resplendent mansion. Sansa had no doubt they would buy it. It was a very small, modest house, with only a dozen bedchambers, but every each of them was its own piece of art. There were sculptures and paintings and even plants everywhere. And then there was all the upholstered seating furniture that Sansa had never seen before. It was all so wonderfully comfortable and elegant. Their new residence wasn’t fortified at all, instead there were large windows overlooking a wonderfully colourful and fragrant garden. They’d plant a lemon tree there, the Hound… Sandor suggested. Their own lemon tree. Their own home. Sansa was so happy to be there, she wanted the Hound to be happy, too. He smiled rarely, but whenever he touched her intimately, his eyes lit up with the brightest smile. She wanted more of that. She wanted the Hound to giggle with joy just like her.

As strange as it sounded, the Hound had wanted to undress her and wash her himself every day since their wedding. He had already seen and touched her naked body, so Sansa decided she could make this concession to him and allow him to undress her. She was a bit anxious about it, but she believed in the importance of the right beginnings, so she needed their first night in their new home to be perfect for him as well. She could be strong.

“Little bird, you have no idea how much this means to me...” His breathing was hard and ragged. “You’re the most… the one… fuck, you’re… you’re everything to me.”

It was quite touching, actually. The gods have given Sansa a good husband, even if he was no knight and ugly to look at. Sansa smiled at him. “I trust you, Sandor.”

His mouth twitched even as he kissed her. She shuddered slightly when she felt the Hound’s hands on her collarbones, but she didn’t flinch away as he tugged at her dress. He was kissing her ear and doing somethings strange with her dress. He seemed nervous, too. His hands were trembling and his breath shaky. Sansa was very patient, but after a few moments she couldn’t stay silent anymore. She was a woman wedded and bedded, it was not improper to speak up to her husband.

“What… what are you doing, my lord?” 

“Trying to get that buggering dress off, what do you think I’m doing?” 

“Should I unhook the bodice?” Sansa suggested helpfully.

“Ah, you don’t pull that thing over your head?”

“No,” Sansa assured him vehemently.

“I see. Good. It’s good, I’ll do it,” he looked down, cupping her breasts eagerly in his palms.

“Here,” Sansa showed him the hidden front closure of her bodice.

“I know that, little bird,” the Hound chuckled and kissed her briefly, stroking her cheek. “I’ve got it.” 

He really didn’t. His hands were getting wet and clammy. How he could sweat more with her than when training, Sansa would never understand. But his hands were not only too sweaty, they were all too big as well. It seemed almost impossible for him to unhook the tiny metal fasteners that held her bodice to the skirt and he was soon swearing under his breath with frustration.

“Finally,” he cheered as he removed her bodice and the skirt. Then he glanced at her fully clothed figure and swore again.

“How many more layers?” he asked, the sheer desperation of his expression almost making Sansa burst in laughter. It was unbecoming, but she did feel a little proud, too. She’d seen her fearless husband win in a fight against so many strong men and none of them ever elicited even a remotely similar reaction in him.

“I have never counted, my lord,” Sansa admitted.

“Fuck,” he groaned and started unlacing her kirtle. Sansa had to admire his determination. Unlacing proved to be much easier for the man than unhooking the fasteners and he removed her kirtle and farthingale swiftly. He was getting more and more agitated and Sansa was worried he'd perhaps torn the delicate organza partlet that had modestly concealed her cleavage. But when she tried to have a look at it, Clegane didn’t let her move, invading her mouth in another kiss. When he touched her stays, he was already growling like a dog.

“The petticoat first, my lo…” Sansa didn’t get to finish the sentence. Clegane didn’t bother with lifting her petticoat over her head, instead he just ripped it off her body and tried to unlace her stays so hurriedly he ended up completely tangling the cords. He fumed, took a step back, swore and to Sansa’s surprise he started undressing himself, shocking her with the speed in which he could rid himself of all the clothes. He stood in front of her completely naked, only in his breeches, and Sansa demurely lowered her eyes. She regretted it immediately, because she saw then his feet for the first time. Sansa generally considered feet to be very unappealing and distasteful things, perhaps the very worst part of any person’s body. And the Hound had giant feet. Ugly giant feet. Why exactly wasn’t he wearing any stockings? She had indeed so much to teach him about fashion.

“Look at me.” He forced her head up, breathing hard. “You’re my wife, little bird.”

“Yes, my lo… Sandor.”

His mouth curved into a smile. “That’s right. Your Sandor,” he nuzzled against her cheek. “That’s the best title I could ever get.” Tilting her head even further back, he kissed the column of her throat and trailed moist kisses across her shoulders.

Sansa felt the stays unexpectedly loosen up and she finally noticed the knife in the man’s hands. “That’s better,” Clegane growled with feverish satisfaction. He had cut the cord of her stays! Sansa’s mouth fell in shock, but he was already taking the stays off and throwing them on the floor along with the knife. He kissed her again, his hands roving over her body. When Sansa felt his hand on the hem of her shift, her nervousness came flooding back. But then she stood bare in front of him and she bravely kept her hands by her sides, letting him see her nakedness. Clegane’s eyes terrified her again. She knew that men were supposed to feel lust for their wives and she’d only recently realized what septons really meant when they spoke of a look of lust. The Hound wasn’t being improper, but seeing his eyes burning with desire and his mouth twitching made her step back in fear, bumping against the wall behind her.

“Don’t be afraid, Sansa,” he rasped dangerously and kneeled in front of her, nibbling at her throat. “I’ll be gentle.” He brushed his thumbs over her nipples and lowered his lips to her breast, capturing the nipple in his cruel mouth. He wasn’t gentle at all, instead he sucked at Sansa’s tender flesh and Sansa trembled as she felt his tongue flick the bud into a taut peak. She hated that she had no control over her own body, her own embarrassing reactions. She hated it even more, when a moan escaped her lips and her back arched, pushing her breast even further into his mouth. She couldn’t do that, she was a good girl. Sansa was mortified that it was her husband out of all people who’d witnessed her wicked behaviour. 

„So bloody perfect,“ Clegane murmured roughly, rolling the other nipple between his calloused fingers.

Sansa gasped audibly at the sensation and covered her face with her hands, trying to hide her shame. This wasn’t like her at all, she’d always been so well-mannered. 

“Stop hiding from me, girl,” her husband ordered her. He said this often to her and Sansa knew she had to obey him, but how could she face him after behaving like that? What would he think of her? A good lady was supposed to let her husband do whatever he wanted and she was to bear the discomfort without reacting to it, focusing instead on her prayers. Sansa was failing yet again.

The Hound stood up then, scooping her in his arms, and he finally lied her down in their new large bed. Sansa had feared her legs would buckle under her, so she was grateful for the comfort of the bed. Clegane continued to explore her body with his half-burnt lips, he even removed her stockings. Sansa however meanwhile managed to calm herself down a little and dared to look into the man’s eyes. He wasn’t laughing at her for her behaviour and he didn’t seem offended, either. No, he was… he was smiling. She hadn’t displeased him after all? He seemed happy. Very happy. Sansa was making her husband happy. That was the most important thing. She would explain herself to the gods later. She just needed to improve her self-control now.

But every semblance of calm disappeared, when Clegane’s mouth moved to her smallclothes.

“My lord!” Sansa protested, but the Hound didn’t move away at all, instead, he kept nuzzling his face between her legs. The low sound that rumbled from his throat made it even scarier. “My lord! No, no, please, you cannot kiss my smallclothes!”

The man looked up at her and chuckled. “Right.”

And he pulled down her smallclothes. He pulled them down. Completely. Sansa’s smallclothes. Gone. Gone.

Sansa watched her smallclothes fall on the floor and her mind sank into the stillness of pure horror. She was there. In her bed. Naked. Naked as her name day. She didn’t have her smallclothes on. She was naked. Completely naked. Her smallclothes was on the floor and the Hound was in her bed. He could see her. He could…

“No, my lord, please!” Sansa cried out, quickly covering her groin with her hands. “I am not wearing anything under… please.”

“Yes, let me see you.” He put his hand on hers. “Let me taste you, Sansa.”

“No,” Sansa tried to curl up in a little ball, wishing to disappear.

“Little bird, what’s the matter?” The Hound’s horrible face twisted and he stroked her thighs. “You smell so sweet, I just want to kiss you everywhere.”

“No, Sandor, please…” Sansa’s voice betrayed her and she started crying. Why did he do that to her? This night was supposed to mark their perfect new beginning and she had been so good to him. Why was he so awful to her? Was it because she hadn’t behaved properly before? 

The man took her into his arms and kissed her tears away. “Hush, little bird, It’s alright. It’s alright. We can wait. I just thought… fuck. It doesn’t matter.” He stroked her hair with the tenderness Sansa liked and he nuzzled at her cheek. “You’re safe with me, little bird. Just don’t cry.”

Sansa felt her fear dissipate a little, so that she could speak without a tremor in her voice. “Wait for what, my lord?” she asked anxiously.

“We don’t need to consummate our marriage tonight. We can wait however long you want.”

“But we have already consummated our marriage, Sandor,” Sansa reminded him.

“What?”

“We have already consummated our marriage.”

“When… what? What?!” The Hound looked genuinely perplexed.

“Well… every night?”

Clegane’s eyes widened even further. “Wha…” he gasped. “Sansa, what do you think I do to you at night?”

“Well, on our wedding night…” Sansa bit her lip, unable to speak aloud of such things.

He shook his head. “I only undressed you on our wedding night, Sansa. Fortunately, you had less clothes on than today. I undressed you. I checked whether you’re fine. And that was it,” he growled, suddenly looking angry.

“But you claimed me!”

“You fainted out of a blood loss! Seven bloody hells, what do you think of me, Sansa?” He asked, the hurt clear in his voice.

“But I… I… We shared bed!”

“I know, I know, it’s common,” he snarled. “Take a woman in her sleep, perhaps with the help of the milk of the poppy and everybody’s happy, the woman can’t complain, but… fuck.” He scratched the back of his head. “Sansa, I can’t do it like that, I need to know when I’m hurting you and I need you to tell me immediately. I don’t always realize it and… fuck, I could never risk hurting you, don’t you understand?”

“But I bled so much more that day!” 

The man shrugged. “Can’t it come naturally with the moonblood? That it’s heavier on some days than others?”

Was it possible? Was it possible that those unspeakable things they'd done were not enough? That she had to be completely naked? "But… but…” 

“You’re still a maiden, little bird,” he told her.

A maiden. She was a maiden? Oh, she was a maiden! She could still give her parting prayer to the Maiden! Sansa’s face lit up with relief. She hadn’t failed the gods at all, she was still pure. She would give her last maiden prayer to the gods as the Hound claimed her body. 

“What is it, little bird?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa smiled at him. “I thought… I beg your pardon, Sandor, I was so stupid.”

He looked at her perplexed. “You weren’t stupid at all, Sansa. We just both assumed something different. It’ll be much better this way, little bird. There’ll be pain, but other things, too. Nice things.”

Sansa nodded. She could give her parting prayer to the Maiden and restore her reputation in the eyes of gods.

“So…” Clegane swallowed, his hand caressing her waist. “Do you want me to stop now?”

“Shouldn’t we… should we not consummate our marriage?”

“If you want it, then we should. But it doesn’t have to be tonight, my love.”

“But you want it tonight.” Sansa could sense it with her womanly intuition.

The Hound nodded, staring at her intently.

“Then we should,” Sansa decided.

He let out a shaky breath. “Even if it means I’ll get to touch you without your smallclothes?”

“Is it necessary?” Sansa asked in a small voice.

“It is. And it will hurt, little bird, I can’t change that.”

Sansa had been so happy to be a woman wedded and bedded, she had enjoyed finally being taken seriously by everyone. She didn’t want it to be a lie. She wanted to be wedded and bedded to the Hound. The reality of the bedding seemed worse and worse, but if other women could do it, so could she. She could be strong.

“Then we should,” she said softly.

The Hound’s mouth twitched and he exhaled loudly, his entire face clearing up with relief.

“Yes,” he groaned. “We should.”

He devoured her mouth in abandon, his hands starting to roam over her body all over again. But then he suddenly stood up and Sansa looked at him in surprise, only to see him take his breeches off. She swallowed. Did he really have to do that? Since she had to be naked, perhaps he did, too. The realization did nothing to calm her and neither did the sight of his naked body. He had those beastly muscles even on his back and thighs and in between. And hair. Oh no, his legs were so hairy! And even his behind… It was wrong, it all looked wrong.

And then Clegane turned around and made it so much worse. Sansa closed her eyes and opened them again. He was still there. Naked. Really, really naked. He had… Sansa remembered herself. It was not proper to glance at a naked man. And besides, Clegane had always been so angry about his face, how would he react to her staring at his naked form? 

Sansa didn’t dare to look at the man again, but then she felt the bed dip under his weight and soon his mouth descended upon her. When Sansa opened her eyes, all she could see were his muscles flexing as he held himself above her. She could do this. She had to be strong. It wasn’t the Hound’s fault he had giant’s blood in him. He was a good husband to her, she could… Sansa felt her husband’s manhood touch her thigh and she shuddered in disgust. She knew how it looked now. She’d known he was different there than other men, she had felt the hardness of his manhood through the barrier of his breeches before. But seeing it was something completely different. The poor man, carrying such a horrible thing in his breeches every day of his life. Did it hurt? It stood up straight from his body in the most unnatural manner, it had to hurt a lot. And to think he usually wore his heavy armour over it! Poor Sandor. No wonder he had always been so angry. But now he was with Sansa and she would take care of him, she would make him forget all the pain. As the Hound turned his attention to her breasts again, Sansa gathered her courage and gently stroked his hair. Had people been cruel to him because of his manhood, too? 

The Hound looked up in surprise and Sansa smiled at him encouragingly, threading her fingers through his hair. He swallowed and kissed her on lips. “Sansa…” his voice trembled. “Sansa…”

He ran his hands frantically over her body, as if he feared she would melt away. His manhood was pressing against her thigh as a hot thick bar and it was horrible. It was covered in huge veins just like Clegane’s arms and now it even twitched like his mouth. It was the most revolting thing, like something from another world. Sansa wanted it to go away and never touch her again, but she was a good wife, she didn’t want to hurt her husband’s feelings, so she lay still. And then she felt his hand slide between her tightly clenched thighs. Sansa bit her lip and closed her eyes.

“Look at me, little bird.” She heard his deep rasp.

Sansa obeyed him and met his glistening gaze.

“You have the most beautiful eyes, you know that?”

“You think so, my lord?”

“I know it,” he kissed her brow. “Don’t hide them from me, little bird. You have the most beautiful eyes,” he kissed her other brow, “and hair,” he kissed her hair, “and nose,” he kissed her nose, “and body,” he stroked her breasts. “And don’t even get me started about your sweet mouth,” he nibbled at her lip. “You’ll let me see all of your beauty, won’t you?”

Sansa relaxed in his arms. Her husband thought her beautiful. Well, everybody did that, but he thought she was the most beautiful woman of all. And he had seen many beauties. And he never lied. She nodded in answer. 

He kissed her neck and Sansa tensed as his massive hand slid between her thighs again. She should have been praying, but the only thing she could concentrate on was the feeling of his hands on her.

“Spread your legs for me, Sansa,” he commanded.

Sansa bit her lip. She could be brave. She held her breath and spread her legs for a good inch. The Hound smiled, touching her there, but then he stopped unexpectedly, his eyes widening.

“You’re wet,” he gasped.

“I am not!” Sansa squeaked defensively. She hadn’t wet herself since she’d been three years old, how could he think that of her?

“You’re wet. Seven hells, you’re really wet,” he groaned loudly.

“No, I am not, Sandor. Please, believe me, it’s…”

She yelped as he moved and his strong hands roughly spread her legs apart. Within an instant he bowed down to kiss her there, between her legs. “So wet. So fucking wet. For me. All for me.”

Sansa tried to close her legs, but she was unable to move them at all, while he didn’t even need to flex his muscles in the slightest. 

“No, please, no!” Sansa tried to cover herself, but instead she felt the touch of his tongue. Sansa squirmed beneath him, but it didn’t stop the man. Why was he doing this to her? Was he supposed to do that? Sansa didn’t understand anything anymore, she didn’t even understand her own body. It was horrible. She was such a good girl, she wouldn’t moan at the strange sensation. But she did. And again. Sansa panicked. She couldn’t stand it anymore and she started pushing the man away with all her strength.

“Stop it, Sansa, what’re you doing?”

Sansa used the opportunity to cover herself with her hands.

“Stop it, girl,” he frowned. “You don’t want me to take you tonight?”

“I do,” Sansa whined.

“Then what are you doing?”

Sansa didn’t even try to stop the tears anymore. “I’ve always been so good, I really have… Please, believe me, Sandor. I have always been a good girl, even as a child! I have never behaved like that before, I don’t know… I…”

He seemed confused. The weight of his body was now crushing Sansa to the bed, spreading her legs even further. “I know how good you are, little bird. I’ve just tasted you,” he grinned at her. But then he bit his lip, his face more serious. “Sansa, what are you afraid of? What can I do to make you feel better? Hmm?” he brushed his nose against hers.

“Is… is it necessary? For you to touch me… there?” She blushed furiously.

“How else would you consummate the marriage, little bird?” Clegane rasped. 

“I… ah. So it is necessary,” Sansa realized. 

“It is. Any objections?”

“No… I…”

He pressed his lips hard to hers and Sansa winced when she realized she could taste herself on his mouth. 

Sansa had to be a good wife, she had to obey her husband better than other women. She could do this. She… she couldn’t. When his hand touched her between her legs again, another moan escaped her lips and she quickly covered herself. 

“Let me see you, little bird.”

“I can’t. I want to, I really do, I just… I can’t help it, Sandor. I am so sorry, I can’t…”

“It’s alright, little bird, it’s alright,” he rasped. “Don’t fret over it,” he kept kissing her sweetly, stroking her arms, bringing them above her head. “Stop worrying about anything. We’re together, that’s all that matters. There,” he looked at her with strange satisfaction. “You’re my little bird.”

Sansa smiled at those comforting words. She wanted to touch Sandor’s hair again, but she couldn’t. Her hands. She couldn’t move her hands. He had tied her hands above her head, he had tied them to the bed! With… with her own stocking. He had tied her hands with her stocking and he was proud of it!

“See?” He asked, smirking. “You can relax now, little bird.”

“But…”

“Enough chirping,” he interrupted her impatiently. “Your cunt is the sweetest thing there is, Sansa, I want all of it. I need all of it. You’re mine and I’ll taste all of your body. I’ll fuck you and I’ll fill you with my seed. And then again. And again, until neither of us can move anymore. You understand that?”

Sansa didn’t dare to disagree, so she nodded. He smiled again, sliding his fingers between her legs. Sansa flinched, but the Hound held her in place and kissed his way down her body. Then he replaced his hand with his warm, soft tongue and Sansa had to bite at her lip to keep from crying out. It didn't help. It was so terrifying being open like this to him, not being able to move. And it was her fault, she should have allowed him this in the first place, she shouldn’t have panicked. Sansa finally turned to prayer, hoping the Maiden would help her get through the ordeal with dignity, without embarrassing herself again.

“There’s my good girl,” the Hound hummed against her skin.

When Sansa met his eyes, there was a new shine in them and Sansa could almost feel the elation emanating from the man. He didn’t fault her for her failings. He was happy. She was making him happy. She could do it. She could be a good wife. She could be strong.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, beware the tags. Darker chapters are coming.

Sandor thought he might burst with happiness. He had his little bird in his bed, open and trusting. A woman that wasn’t repulsed or scared of him, a woman that actually cared for him. A kind and clever wife, a woman of high morals and impossible grace. She had chosen him. Sansa Stark herself had chosen him over all the princes of the world and he could kiss her and hug her and touch her. He could finally, finally claim her. Sandor still couldn’t comprehend how anyone could be this beautiful. From Sansa’s captivating eyes and alluring curve of her neck to the rosy tips of her round breasts and long, long legs, everything was special about her. 

Sansa looked even more delicate without her clothes. It was madness. She was such a little thing and so, so captivating. Everybody with an eye and a cock would want her, everybody could hurt her. Sansa was the single perfect person in a horrible world, she had no defence, nothing. Sandor couldn’t imagine living without his sword, strength and intimidating size. Everybody feared him. He hated it sometimes, but he never felt unsafe. What would it be like to be always at mercy of others? By marrying Sansa he had become horribly vulnerable, too. He knew Sansa would be never protected enough, because nothing was enough. He’d go mad with fear one day, he was sure of it. They had to have many sons, Sandor decided. Big, strong sons with good heart of their mother and fierceness of their father. They’d always keep their mother and sisters safe, even after Sandor’s death.

Sansa looked so dainty and fragile in his arms, Sandor wanted to wrap himself around her and shield her from the world. Her taste was so sweet in his mouth, he could spend the rest of his life between her legs and never have enough. And her soft moans, fuck, that was the music of heavens. Sansa was obviously trying to stifle them, she wanted to stay silent as all the highborns were taught. But she couldn’t. All maidens were dry and either stayed silent or screamed in terror, but Sandor’s wife was all wet for him and she couldn’t stop her cries of pleasure. Sandor hungrily tasted her sweetness, trying to ignore the ache building in his cock. He couldn’t wait anymore. 

When Sandor straightened, Sansa stared transfixed at his cock. Good. It was the right place to stare at and Sandor intentionally positioned himself so that she could see it in all its glory. Perhaps it was a little vain, but Sandor was overjoyed that some parts of him were truly attractive to his wife. He wanted to be desired, he wanted to be as irresistible to Sansa as she was to him. Well, Sandor knew that was impossible to achieve, of course, and he would never fool himself in anything. He was glad even for this miracle, for Sansa wanting him at all. But still, a man could dream. Sandor had been afraid that Sansa would not appreciate his manhood, but his fears proved to be completely groundless. When Sansa had seen him naked for the first time, she immediately smiled at him and caressed his hair lovingly. She was probably already imagining him inside her. And Sandor would make her want him even more.

For now Sansa’s eyes were still confused and scared, though, so Sandor caressed her cheek softly and kissed her. He was scared, too, but he couldn’t tell her that. He was too fucking big for her, he’d hurt her and he couldn’t bear the thought of her rejecting him. But she would get used to him, wouldn’t she? Besides, people were just like any other animal. Animals were scared of new things, it was natural. Neither of Sandor’s horses wanted to be ridden at first, but with firm approach they learned to love it over time. Of course his little bird was afraid. But if Sandor never let her see his own fears and uncertainty, she would be calmer for it, too.

Sandor nipped Sansa’s luscious lip as he positioned himself between her legs. It had been very wise of him to begin every day of their marital life by taking himself in hand before his little bird even woke up. And it was his great luck that he had done it twice that day, because otherwise he would have already completely embarrassed himself. Still, any semblance of calm disappeared when he felt the moist warmth touch his cock.

“Sansa,” he groaned, before thrusting forward. Sansa let out a shriek of pain… and nothing happened.

Sandor tried to move again. “Fuck,” he swore. Why couldn’t he get inside her at all? Sandor didn’t want to use too much force. He desperately wanted to introduce his delicate wife to marital life slowly and gently, but it took all his willpower not to plunge into her with all his strength and just be done with it.

“My lord, what are you doing?” his beautiful wife cried out. With her arms tied above her head she luckily couldn’t cover herself anymore, but she was at least trying to pull away from him. 

“Hold still, girl,” Sandor growled.

“But... No, no, it hurts too much!” she raised her voice in panic. “Please, my lord, what are you doing?”

“Seven hells. Just relax, Sansa, relax.”

She tensed even more. Sandor reached for a little bottle he’d carried with him since their wedding. Sandor had always needed to use oil on himself when he was with whores and it was stupid not to do it now as well. Sansa was wet for him unlike all the other women, but she was still a maiden. Sandor needed all the help he could get to make it easier for her. Sandor kissed his wife and tried to push into her again. Nothing. Seven bloody hells, this was madness. 

“Relax, Sansa, I can’t get inside of you like this.”

“Inside? What...” 

“I told you to relax, girl.”

“But I am already lying in bed!” she complained. “My lord, what should I do?”

This wouldn’t do. Sandor shifted himself and slipped his hands between her legs, distracting Sansa with soft kisses. “Little bird, calm down. You want me to claim you, don't you?”

"I do, my lord," she said with conviction.

"And you are mine?"

“I am, my lord. But I don't understand!”

Sandor slid his finger into her. This was easier. Sansa had clearly thought he could only enter her with his cock, so she immediately fell silent and her beautiful eyes widened in shock. With one hand Sandor stroked her hair in a soothing motion and gently pressed against her maidenhead with another. What had the gods been drinking when they created yet another unnecessary thing to give young girls more pain? The bloody thing held better than a Lannister shield and Sandor had to use more force than he’d have preferred. But Sansa’s body finally, finally surrendered to him.

“Sandor!” Sansa cried out in pain, her whole body quivering.

“There you go, Sansa. That’s better.” Sandor slowly moved inside her, stretching her. Gradually he eased his entire finger into her, drawing air deep into his lungs at the intense heat of her moist channel. Of course her cunt was perfect, everything had to be bloody perfect about this woman, he noted grumpily. She was determined to drive him crazy with her beauty. Seven hells, but she was tight, too tight even for his finger, no wonder he hadn’t been able to get inside her. It should have horrified Sandor, but it had quite the opposite effect on him. He needed her. He had to have her. Sansa sucked in a sharp breath and started squirming under him.

“Hold still, Sansa,” he insisted. “Believe me, it’s better this way.”

She bit her lip, but she nodded and didn’t voice any protests. 

“Good girl,” he kissed her. Sandor knew Sansa better than anyone, he knew what she wanted to hear. And it always worked like magic. Even now she gave him a shy little smile and immediately let all her muscles go limp.

Sandor chuckled slightly at her reaction, but he couldn’t overlook how striking she was at that moment with her hair tousled upon the pillow, her lips swollen from his kisses and big blue eyes full of trust gazing up at him.

“It’s alright,” he told her again, withdrawing his hand. “You’re my brave little bird.”

“Is it… is it done?” she asked timidly, her face all flushed.

Sandor glanced at the blood covering his hand and wiped it off into the sheets before she could see.

“Yes, my love, it’s done now,” he nuzzled her cheek.

Sansa closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. Sandor caressed her inner thighs, enjoying the feel of her skin. Did all highborn ladies have skin this soft? Nah, only his little bird. She was different from all the other women. She was his. Sandor positioned himself between her legs again, spreading them further apart with his weight. There, that was the heaven made just for him. Sansa’s entire body was relaxed as she completely submitted herself to Sandor. 

“Look at me, little bird,” Sandor whispered to her.

Sansa opened her eyes and smiled bashfully. His wife. His. Sandor kissed her and thrust into the silky heat of her. He still encountered some resistance and he pushed past it as swiftly as he could. He was there. He was inside her. Sansa’s whole body stiffened and she let out a pained scream, but Sandor covered her mouth in a loving kiss, cradling her in his arms. Finally. Finally. Sandor’s entire being was enveloped in her welcoming warmth and softness. She was everywhere, accepting him, moulding herself against him. Seven hells, Sandor was really inside her. He was a part of her. 

“What… what…” Sansa gasped, but Sandor kept boring deeper into her yielding flesh. No other woman had ever felt like this. She was far too tight for him, far too innocent, far too gorgeous. And Sandor buried his full length inside her anyway. Sandor grunted as his pelvis slammed against her and she let out a little moan. She was his. Nobody could ever take this away from them, nobody would ever touch Sansa as he did. She was his. She was the only woman he would take for the rest of his days, the only woman in the world. His woman. His lady. His. His. Sandor withdrew from her as he seized her mouth in another voracious kiss.

“Sansa,” he groaned.

“My lord, Sandor, Sandor, what…” 

Sandor thrust into her again, stretching her wide, filling her beyond her limits, stealing her breath. Whenever she opened her mouth to speak, Sandor plunged his cock deep into her, tearing instead a gasp from her throat.

“San…”

He liked that. He liked it when she couldn’t finish her words, form a single coherent thought. He liked it when all her senses were overwhelmed by him. She had robbed him of his own thoughts long ago, she had been the only thing he could concentrate on. The only important thing in the world. He wanted to be the only thing on her mind, too. He wanted her to forget all she had been taught, all that was proper, he wanted her to feel only him.

Sansa tried to pull her arms free, but she was obviously losing control over her own body. She writhed beneath him, her back arched to welcome him and her cries sounded more and more like moans. Sandor was so damn proud of himself for getting his wife wet on their first night, he couldn’t get enough of the wet sound filling the air with every movement. Hearing it obviously horrified Sansa, but that only further stoked his own desire. He loved making her gasp in shock. Her embarrassment was so titillating, he couldn’t resist it. And when he made Sansa Stark forget about all propriety and moan loudly, he felt like a buggering king. No victory had ever been so sweet. Her inner muscles clenched around him, Sansa’s soft body clinging to his. Her tiny cunt was trying to strangle him, the moist flesh squeezing the last bits of sanity out of him. 

“I could die like this,” he rasped.

“Please don’t,” she replied, breathless.

Sandor smirked and pounded deep into her with increased fervour. Sandor knew he was battering against Sansa's womb, but he was past caring. His wife was gasping, sighing, twisting sensuously under him. She was glorious. She was his. Sandor held onto her, pressing her hard into the mattress, as he drove into her savagely, making her breasts bounce with every stroke. He pushed into her harder and faster, until he gave one last deep thrust. She was his. A harsh groan ripped from his throat as he spilled himself inside her, claiming her forever. Sansa. His Sansa. His perfect little bird. His. Sansa…

When Sandor regained his senses again, he was on his back, Sansa lying on him, his softening cock still inside her. He couldn’t be parted from her just yet. He wanted never to be parted from her. Sandor embraced her tightly to himself so that she wouldn’t disappear. He had done it. He had claimed his little bird. She was now truly his and nobody could ever challenge their marriage. If anybody wanted Sansa now, they had to kill Sandor first. And he wouldn’t get himself killed. He was a married man, he wouldn’t get himself killed. He had a wife to protect. When Sandor finally thought to untie Sansa’s arms, she gently rested her pale little hands on his chest. They lay together in comfortable silence, Sandor’s fingertips tenderly stroking her smooth back. 

“You’re not a maiden anymore, little bird,” he told her, his voice ragged. “You’re mine now.”

Sansa gave a stiff nod. She looked completely ravished and Sandor smiled smugly at the sight.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly. “Did I hurt you?”

“I… The pain was to be expected, my lord.”

“I know, but does it hurt too much, Sansa?”

“No, Sandor. You do not need to worry,” she chimed sweetly into his chest.

“I’m your husband, I’ll always worry,” he planted a kiss into her hair and made her look up. “I’ll keep you safe from anything, little bird, even from myself, if need be. Tell me, what’s the matter?”

“I just… Please don’t think me stupid, my lord…” she began. “But I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” he stroked her hair.

“I… what just happened, what will happen…” Sansa bit her lip. She was blushing again. “Please forgive me, I am being improper.”

“You’re never improper, Sansa. What happens, well,” he swallowed, “that depends on you. Will you… will you want to drink moon tea?” Sandor already knew the answer, knew why she started talking about this, but the thought hurt anyway. He was still inside her, he didn’t want to think about it. Not now. Not yet.

“Oh, no, please no!” her eyes widened. “Please don’t make me drink it.”

Sandor opened his mouth and closed it again. Sansa didn’t want moon tea? She begged him not to make her drink it? She… seven hells. She was so worried because she thought Sandor would make her drink buggering moon tea. He had assumed it would take some time for him to convince her there was no reason to wait, he had expected this to be their biggest conflict in the relationship. He had been sure Sansa wouldn’t want to have children before she had her family’s blessing, before Sandor was a northern lord. But he had been wrong, so completely wrong. Sandor’s breath now caught in his throat. She was staring at him with those big blue eyes again, no less innocent than two weeks before. She meant it. She didn’t only want him for his strength, she wanted him to father her children, too. She couldn’t wait. She didn’t mind his looks, his reputation, his lack of station. She trusted him so much she wanted a family with him. He didn’t have to convince her at all. Sandor blinked the tears away and hugged her tightly to himself. He held on to Sansa as he regained control. Soon everybody would see the swell of her belly. Everybody would know he had made her his wife in truth. Sandor wanted everybody to know it, he wanted everybody to see the proof of their love. Within a year they’d have a family. He would have two beautiful princesses to protect. Seven hells, he would really go mad with fear then, wouldn’t he?

“Can you feel it?” he asked throatily.

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“My seed inside you. Can you feel it?”

Her eyes widened and she blushed deeply. “I… I…”

“Well?”

“I am not sure my lord…”

She gasped when she felt him swell inside her again and Sandor chuckled. Sansa clearly had no idea how often she made him hard and she was so adorable in her confusion. It was about time he showed her what she’d done to him. 

“Well, then you obviously need more of it, don’t you?” he smirked.

Sansa’s little whimper did nothing but entice Sandor further. 

“Don’t you think, little bird?” he repeated.

“What… what is happening, my lord?” 

Sandor flipped her to her back and pinned her with his body, kissing her deeply. “I’ve asked you something, Sansa.”

She was looking around as if searching for some clue, but Sandor made her face him again and he circled her slender throat with his hand. He loved feeling her pulse under his hand. He loved her breath on him.

“You want my seed inside you, little bird, don’t you? Admit it. You want it to quicken there, you want to grow heavy with it. You want everybody to see. Say it.”

“I don’t understand anything anymore,” she whined. “What is… what is happening, Sandor?” The buggering Faith filled people’s heads with seven shits and as a result, Sandor’s wife was now scared even of her own arousal. Never mind. Sandor would show her what was proper. He would show her the seven heavens. Sandor put her hands on his shoulders and kissed her, exploring her delicious mouth. Sandor withdrew and slowly slid into the warmth again, enjoying the unhurried pace of their lovemaking. Sansa shivered as he nipped under her jaw and moaned prettily when their groins met. She hugged him tightly to herself, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Admit it, girl. Say you want me to fill you with my seed,” he demanded.

“I… I do… my lord?” she cheeped, as docile as ever.

Sandor smiled proudly at her confession. “You do, don’t you?” he groaned as her sweet cunt tightened around him. “You really do. You’re mine. My perfect, perfect wife,” he nuzzled her cheek.

Sansa blushed and smiled at those words, bashfully lowering her lashes. She clung to him tightly as he moved within her and she didn’t complain again. She embraced him. She accepted him. She loved him. Sansa Stark loved him.


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor was scared. What if Sansa had stopped loving him? What if she didn’t want him anymore? What if he had done something wrong?

Sandor took in a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the plans. Ealdwyne had been eager to prove his worth to the Starks since the beginning, but it was getting worse and worse. Especially since the letter from Riverrun had arrived. Robb Stark obviously couldn’t be bothered to write to his sister in exile, but Lady Stark even sent little figurines of the Seven. They now stood proudly displayed on Sansa and Sandor's bedside tables, facing the couple with seven pairs of eerie judging eyes. What an inspiring wedding gift. Catelyn Stark clearly wasn’t happy about her daughter’s unexpected marriage, but she didn’t condemn her, either. She even said that the King in the North had no right to criticize his sister for her choice of a husband. Well, that was weird. And surprising. Even Sandor didn’t understand what Lady Stark meant by it. Sansa thought that her mother simply blamed her brother for refusing to exchange the girls for Jamie Lannister. Sandor thought there had to be something else at play as well. He just didn’t know what.

Ealdwyne was very proud of himself for delivering the letter from Lady Stark and now he kept blathering about his grand plans of sinking the Lannister ships. Apparently the repentant smuggler had quite a few repentant northern friends among pirates, who wanted to redeem themselves by honourable pirating in the name of House Stark. Sandor was of course to act as their mediator, because diplomacy was such a great strength of his.

Talking. Sandor was doing nothing else than talking. He kept training as vigorously as ever, but instead of cutting through people, he was talking and talking and talking. He really didn’t enjoy his new role of a landowner. For one, it meant he spent much less time with his little bird than he would have preferred. Almost none, actually. For another, it meant he had to listen other people’s drivel and solve their problems by other means than chopping them into pieces. And that was inconvenient. 

“So what do you think Sandor?” Ealdwyne asked, full of hope.

“Good, keep it up,” he nodded, hoping his old friend wasn’t talking about something important. “Anyway, what’s with the ship? Do you think it has survived the storm?”

“Aye, of course it has! None of my ships ever sink! We’ve had worse. Your lady wife will be getting the letter within two days, I assure you.”

“She better be,” Sandor grumbled.

Truth be told, he needed to give his wife some good news. Sansa and he had been so happy at the beginning of their marriage, so happy. Until the first letter arrived. Both Sansa’s younger brothers had been killed by that ironborn eel and the news shook Sandor’s wife terribly. Sandor didn’t know what to do, how to help. He didn’t know how to console such a delicate little bird, how to make her happy. He had failed her. Somewhere along the way she had stopped loving him. Or perhaps she hadn’t loved him at all. They had both deluded themselves in taking her gratitude for something more. But once the first real test of their relationship came… he failed. Sandor failed. He didn’t know how to help her. He didn’t deserve her and she knew it now.

Only four moon's turns had passed since their wedding, but Sansa didn’t kiss Sandor anymore, she never hugged him and for a full moon she had been refusing him in their bed, too. She was mourning her brothers, Sandor understood that and he didn’t want to pressure her. But he missed it terribly, he missed being closer to her, sharing everything with her. Sansa probably didn’t. She had enjoyed herself at the beginning of their relationship, she had moaned under him prettily, she had kissed him back, she had arched her back to welcome him. Not now. Not anymore. The last time Sandor had made love to her, before the letter arrived, she remained completely silent the whole time. She wasn’t attracted to him anymore.

Sandor did all he knew to do. He never showed any weakness in front of his wife, instead he was trying to be the steady rock Sansa could always lean on. He successfully hid all his tears and fears, he let her see only his strength. Sandor liked it when his wife saw him beat everyone who sparred with him. He thought she would like it, too. Women wanted strong men, didn’t they? Sandor wasn’t a comely strong man, but he was definitely stronger than any comely man. He wanted her to see it. He was a great swordsman and he could keep his wife safe. He knew it was important to Sansa, it had to be. It was the only thing he had going for him, it was why she had chosen him in the first place. 

Sandor didn’t let Sansa touch him. He knew she meant it well and he loved the gesture, he loved it when she reached for him. But once her beautiful hands indeed traced his hideous scars, he felt uncomfortable. He didn’t want Sansa to be confronted so completely with his ugliness. He didn’t want to risk disgusting her. No, Sandor tried to dress nicely for Sansa, he kept his hair clean and face shaved. But it was for the best when Sansa kept her hands to herself and let Sandor prove to her his love and devotion. Her body was worthy of all the world’s admiration and he was more than willing to give it to her.

So what had he done wrong? Where was the error? Why had Sansa stopped being attracted to him? Perhaps she had realized what she had given up for him. She liked Sandor’s strength and safety it offered her, but it was not enough and she probably already longed for more beauty in her life. It was natural. It was why all the stories began by describing the man as comely, or beautiful or some other poetic shit. Sandor loved his wife’s looks, of course she wanted the same, she wanted a husband, whose looks she could admire. Sandor understood that, he really did. But the realization was more painful than the wounds that had left him scarred.

And it was even more painful, when he saw it with his own eyes. Sandor arrived home at dawn, after a full night of riding from the outpost of their lands. He arrived much earlier than Sansa expected. He wanted to be with her, hold her, make her feel better. He wanted to make it all right. And then he saw him. A man leaving their mansion. A stranger. It was none of their guards or servants, it wasn’t anyone Sandor had ever met. It was a slender man with hair so yellow he could easily pass for a Lannister, a city man with nice garbs and surely all the right words for women’s ears. A comely man. Sandor couldn’t see his features, but he was sure of it, he was sure the man was handsome. No visitor would ever come to see Sansa at this hour. Not unless… not unless he was a lover. Sansa’s lover. A man with a full face and normal body. A man with proper manners. The right man for Sansa. Sandor gritted his teeth. So this was him. This was the man who had stolen Sansa from him.

 

Sansa was scared. She was scared what her husband would say, how he would react. He hated it when she kept secrets from him, even the silliest ones like a sprained finger. She shouldn’t have kept a secret from him. Sandor was a strange man and yet Sansa had found great comfort in his love for her. It was so refreshing. Clegane clearly didn’t care about her title, he loved her when her face were streaked with tears just as much as when she had her best dress on. He didn’t expect her to be always courteous, actually, he had a peculiar habit of trying to provoke her to do something unladylike. He liked it when she had a different opinion, he liked teasing her. He was strange. Strangely sweet. The physical aspect of their relationship had been very scary at first, when Sansa didn’t understand what was happening at all. She was very lucky that she was with Sandor, who always kept her safe and whom she could trust with her body. But sharing a bed with a man proved to be extremely disturbing anyway. Sansa had been so shocked by everything she failed to act like a lady the first time her husband had claimed her. There was a lot of pain when he had first invaded her body, but that was to be expected. Her losing all control over her body and behaving obscenely, however, that was much worse. It was inexcusable. She had panicked. She had been loud. She had cried and sobbed and moaned. She had moved. She had… gods have mercy, she had even enjoyed the intrusion. It was absolutely horrifying. Sansa had entered her married life behaving like a wildling.

Men were men, they could be loud and wild. Especially men like Sandor Clegane. He had blood of giants coursing through his veins, so he was even louder and wilder than any other normal men. It was a relief that he never judged Sansa for her behaviour, but all his provocations were just caused by the giant blood speaking in him. It was Sansa’s responsibility to tame the man, show him good behaviour and guide him to the path of the gods. It was her duty to educate him, but she behaved like a woman of ill repute instead.

Her behaviour was so shocking that Sansa had to spend weeks in prayers, her body betraying her again and again. It took her a long time and a lot of discipline to succeed. But with the help of the Seven Sansa finally managed to concentrate on her prayers, she managed to ignore her husband’s attention and she finally, finally learned to behave like a lady on the marriage bed. She lay silently without a single movement. She prayed throughout the whole ordeal and finally redeemed herself. It was a great relief and it gave her a certain sense of pride, too. No matter what her husband did, she would deny herself all pleasure, she would stay silent and dignified.

But then Sansa received news about her brothers’ death. They had been dead already when she was leaving King’s Landing. Had the Lannisters known it? Had they been waiting to make the announcement special? Perhaps they boys’ death was Sansa’s fault, too. They had been children and they were killed. Was it a punishment for her sinful behaviour? Sansa had already caused the death of Lady and her lord father, perhaps even of Arya. It was possible she was now responsible for her brothers’ death as well. Sansa didn’t know what to do, how to deal with it. She was trying so hard to be good. Sandor claimed that she was the best wife in the world, but he didn’t know what was proper. And Sansa didn’t know to whom to pray for forgiveness and guidance, to the new gods or the old? Whose wrath was she facing? And why? She had always tried so hard to be good.

Sandor had helped Sansa greatly to get through the grief. He always spoke soothing words to her, he was very patient with her, but he always remained honest. Sansa liked it, she liked that she didn’t need the armour of courtesy with him. But she also feared that if they got any more intimate during that emotional time, she would fail again and displease the gods further, so she always refused him. It pained him, she could see that, but she herself felt too confused to do anything about it. She didn’t know what. She felt stupid. Everything she had believed about love and marriage proved to be wrong, her entire life was so vastly different from anything it was supposed to be. Sansa didn’t know what was right and what was wrong anymore, she didn’t know what to do. But today was a better day. Everything would be fine.

“Sansa,” a raspy voice tore her from her thoughts.

“My lord!” Sansa’s eyes widened. “You are very early!” She wasn’t expecting her lord husband until the evening, but she was so glad to see him. She felt brave. She was a Stark of Winterfell, she could be strong. And honest like a Clegane.

“I know,” he seemed downcast. Why was he downcast? She wanted to be happy today.

“Is there something wrong, Sandor? Some bad news?” she worried.

“No, nothing. How…” he cleared his throat. “How do you feel Sansa?”

“Very well, my lord. Will you take tea with me? Look, I got a new type again!”

“Where?” he asked in a low voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where did you get it from?” he growled, almost angrily.

“Well… from Myr. From the market.”

“You bought it?”

“Our servants bought it.”

“Hmm. Fine, I’ll take it then.”

“I have something important to tell you, my lord,” Sansa announced cheerfully, hoping to raise his spirits. “I must confess I have kept a secret from you, because I was not entirely sure...”

“No,” he interrupted her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“But it is important!”

“Well, not to me,” he barked. “I’ve just been away for five days, Sansa, listening to one important thing after another! I’ve got enough,” he fumed. He looked at her for a moment with his eyes once again full of anger, but then he closed them, his expression pained. He collapsed on a chair. “Come here, little bird,” he said, his voice tight and constricted. He gently placed Sansa on his lap and stroked her hair, releasing a shaky breath. They often sat like that together in the evenings, talking about their days. Sandor knew how safe she felt in his embraced and he seemed to enjoy it, too. But today was somehow different.

He took her hand in his large paw and planted a gentle kiss on it. “You know what I feel for you, little bird, don’t you?”

“I do, my lord,” she answered cautiously. Would he ask her if she felt the same? She couldn’t lie to him.

“You know I would do anything for you.”

“I do, my lord.”

He embraced her possessively. “Little bird, I know what I look like, I know what I am. I know it’s not a pretty thing and I can’t change that. But I want you to be happy with me. Why don’t you ever tell me what you want? I’ll do anything, anything you say.”

“But I don’t have any other special wishes, my lord,” Sansa replied, confused. “I am already in communication with my family, you have agreed to bring more food to the North and the harvest has been good… You have given me everything I wanted.”

“But what am I doing wrong?” he asked her pleadingly. “There must be something, I know there is. Tell me. Tell me what I should change to make you happy.”

Sansa blinked. “Sandor, why are you asking this?”

“Because I want you to be happy with me.”

“I am happy with you, my lord,” she said honestly.

Sandor’s mouth twitched. “Don’t lie to me, girl.”

“I am not! But since you are asking, it would make me happy if you listened to my news.”

“No.”

“But you said you would do anything,” Sansa reminded him.

“I know what you have to say and I don’t want to hear it, Sansa.”

“You know?” she gasped.

“Of course I know, you think I wouldn’t notice?” he growled a surly reply. “Seven hells, little bird, what do you think will happen? He’ll just use you, he’ll never be able to protect you like me, he’ll…” his voice broke. 

Now that angered Sansa, too. “How can you talk like that about our son?!” she was outraged.

“Don’t you understand he’s…” Sandor stopped. “What?”

“Children are a blessing and you have no right to talk about them this way!” Sansa stood up, no longer wanting to be in his embrace.

He looked confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“About our son, of course! I have been thinking about telling you for weeks, but I’ve never thought you’d react like… like this!”

“A son?”

“Or a daughter. But I think it will be a son, I can feel it. He’ll be strong and fierce like you, of course he will be able to protect me when he is old enough!”

“A son?”

“I have been unwell for a few days, but the maester… or what they call it here, he was here just a few moments ago and he assured me that the sickness is a good sign of a strong and healthy child. I was afraid to tell you before, but now…”

“A maester?” he breathed out. “It was a buggering maester?”

“Don’t call him that!”

“Seven hells… seven bloody hells…” Sandor seemed completely stupefied by Sansa’s reprimand. “I wasn’t talking about our child, little bird, I thought… Seven hells.”

He wasn’t? That calmed Sansa a little. But only a little. “What were you talking about then?” she asked sternly.

“Never mind, I was a fool, little bird, I was such a sodding fool. Of course it was a maester, I… I’m so sorry, little bird, so sorry… a child,” he touched her stomach gently. “A child,” he laughed a confused chuckle, kissing her fiercely. “My love, my sweet, sweet little bird.”

“You are not angry then?”

“Of course not! A child… seven hells. Our child. Our beautiful princess,” Sandor was suddenly on his knees in front of Sansa, pressing gentle kisses to her stomach. “Seven hells, I’m really the luckiest bugger that ever lived. Such.”

A guard interrupted them, announcing an unexpected visitor. 

“Leave us alone!” Sandor didn’t even turn around and he kept kissing Sansa instead. 

“I’m afraid it’s important, Sandor,” Ealdwyne’s old voice broke in.

“Seven hells, can’t we have at least a single day for ourselves?” Sandor’s mouth twitched furiously as he rose from his knees. "We spoke yesterday, Ealdwyne, if you remember."

Her husband was always rude to their guests, but Sansa happily welcomed the old man. She had grown fond of Ealdwyne Mollen. He looked like a hard, grumpy old man. There were dark pouches under his eyes, his cheeks were drawn, and his thin grey hair always looked untidy. But he had quick wits and a sharp mind, he was honest, never hiding behind a façade. He was a smuggler, but his northern loyalty was very reassuring in this foreign land. Such things could never be taken for granted. Sansa was always glad to welcome Ealdwyne at her home.

“Has the letter arrived?” 

“Aye, m’lady, I… I bring the letter from your mother and… some news.”

“Good news I hope,” Sansa smiled.

Ealdwyne’s face remained passive and Sansa tensed, too.

“How bad?”

“M’lady…” he swallowed. “Robb Stark… the King in the North and his mother were murdered at a wedding about a moon ago.”

“Murdered? What do you mean murdered?”

“They are dead.”

“Of course, they aren’t!” Sansa laughed, suddenly feeling very cold. “You said it yourself. You have a letter from my mother!”

“Which she wrote a day before her death.”

“That’s nonsense! Stop saying such things, Ealdwyne!” she scolded him. “Nobody would kill my brother. And mother! Why would anybody kill my mother?”

The old man frowned. “It seems the Boltons and the Freys plotted with the Lannisters. They massacred all their guests at a wedding. I’m sorry, m’lady.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you come with this to me first,” Sansa heard a menacing snarl next to her. Sandor. Sandor could stop him, couldn’t he? He always protected her, he kept her safe. He would keep her family safe, too, she was sure of it.

“I serve the North,” Ealdwyne replied dryly. “Or at least what’s left of it.”

“Little bird,” Sandor embraced Sansa tightly. “You are not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

She was dreaming, of course. Nothing of it was real. Nothing was really happening. It was a dream. An illusion. It was the tea. She had drunk a cup of tea because of her sickness and now she was imagining things. Sansa’s mother would be so happy to see her first grandchild. She would help Sansa, tell her what to do. She wouldn’t die, of course she wouldn’t. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t really happening.

“It’s a small consolation, m’lady, but your sister has avenged your family.”

“My sister?” Sansa repeated without even knowing.

Arya was dead. It was not possible. Nothing of it was possible. A dream. A dream.

“Aye, m’lady. The Lannisters captured Lady Arya and made her marry the Imp. She somehow plotted with him and together they killed the boy. Joffrey. He’s dead. Poisoned at his own wedding to Margeary Tyrell. A horrible death they say.”

Joffrey. Dead. Robb. Dead. Mother. Dead. Arya. Alive. Or executed. Or something. Sansa felt the world spin around her again. Nothing was real. It was just a dream. An illusion. The world went dark. A dream. Would she wake up now in Winterfell? Strong arms were carrying her, embracing her. Not real. Nothing was real.

“Little bird,” she heard a rasp. She liked that rasp. It made her feel safe, it sounded like home. It had to be real. But nothing was. Nothing could be real. Nothing was really happening.

 

It took Sansa a long time to accept what had happened. It still didn’t feel real, even if she knew it was. Sandor hadn’t said much, instead he held her when she cried and listened to her when she remembered her family. It didn’t feel real even then. Perhaps it never would. 

Sansa’s mother was dead and sister probably executed. What had Lady Catelyn ever done wrong? She had been so good, she was more of a lady than the rest of the Westerosi highborns. Lady Catelyn always knew what to do, what was always right. She never forgot to pray. She was good and kind. And she was murdered anyway. It wasn’t the gods’ doing, the human ruthlessness killed her. Lady Catelyn had suffered so much in her life and none of it was her fault. It wasn’t the gods, it was the world that was awful. 

Sansa didn’t dare to hope her sister was truly alive. There was probably no Stark left in the world. There was no… Sansa opened her eyes and stared in front of her, distractedly stroking her belly. Was it…? There was something, a movement. Her son. Her son. A new, little Stark. There was one Stark left after all. Only one. And soon there would be another.

Sansa swallowed. She would be a mother. She herself would be a Lady Stark. She couldn’t behave like this, it was not worthy of her name. She had a responsibility for her child. She had a responsibility for her people. She was still scared, but she was a wolf, she could be brave. She had to be. She would be.

“What do you want, little bird? What can I do for you?” her husband whispered.

“My family is dead, Sandor.”

Sandor stroked her hair, clearly at a loss for words.

“Do you know what it means?” she asked.

“I do, little bird, I do,” he said, sadness lacing his words.

Sansa nodded, staring numbly at her mother’s letter. “I am the last living Stark. I am the Queen in the North, Sandor. I want to protect my people. I want to keep them safe through the winter. And I want my home back,” she turned her head to face him. “Do you really want to give me what I want?”

Sandor swallowed, looking at her for a long, heavy moment. His eyes were beautiful, all silver and north. They were the eyes of a true northerner. Sansa’s husband placed a warm kiss into her palm and nodded. “Of course.”


	12. Chapter 12

It was cold, it was so awfully cold. Shireen and Ser Davos helped Sansa bring in more blankets, actually, they brought in all the blankets they could still find. But Sansa was afraid it would not be enough. It was so cold it was painful even to breathe, but there was nothing she could do about that. All that was left of the broken tower were ruins and the North Gate was on fire. And there was nothing she could do about it, either.

Shireen looked out of the window. “Will Sandor die?” she asked, her voice shaking, whether with cold or fear, Sansa could not tell.

“One day. One day we will all meet the gods.”

Shireen nodded. “But not today,” she decided.

Sansa’s reply was a mere smile. A weak smile. Completely unconvincing. It was the last day for all of them. She could read it in Ser Davos’ face, she could feel it in her heart. But she couldn’t say it out loud. Sansa’s smile was a lie, but it was enough to convince Shireen. Sansa had been married to Sandor for three years, and yet she sometimes thought with guilt that Shireen cared for him even more than she did.

Shireen was a daughter of Stannis Baratheon, she was the only living Baratheon, Lady Paramount of the Stormlands by right. Sansa still remembered the day when Sandor had brought the girl to her and announced that Shireen was the new member of their family. It was quite a surprise, but Sansa understood her husband’s decision. Sandor had been beyond furious when he saw some witch trying to burn the girl to death. It was to be a sacrifice of sorts to help resurrect Stannis Baratheon or something like that. Sansa still didn’t understand it, but what she later heard from Ser Davos was quite enough to convince her that her husband had done the right thing in killing the woman. Shireen and Sandor had fortunately quickly forged a special bond. Shireen had suffered too much and it had been Sandor who helped Sansa understand her. Together they were able to bolster Shireen’s confidence. Sandor was… no, no, Sansa would not think about him now. She couldn’t bear the thought of him fighting a lost battle. She had to concentrate on other things. She had to keep herself busy. The blankets. Yes, she had to give everybody an extra blanket. 

It was cold, it was so painfully cold. Sansa’s fingers felt numb and her feet were burning, her toes on fire. How could anybody fight in such conditions? How could Sandor, how could Jon? How could poor Daenerys do it, how could she breathe while flying, when Sansa could barely stand? Sansa knew Sandor greatly disliked Daenerys for all her grand words and gestures, for wilfully bringing Dothraki to Westeros. More foreign warriors meant more hungry bellies to feed and these particular ones were pillaging villages and raping starving commoners. Sansa didn’t agree with bringing foreign soldiers to Westeros either, and yet she couldn’t help but admire Daenerys. Daenerys was so brave. Sansa had given birth to Aenor just two moon’s turns prior and she still remembered how clumsy she had felt when she was heavy with child. Sansa had never been able to ride even a horse for a long time when expecting, much less a dragon. Everybody told Daenerys that she wouldn’t be able to do ride a dragon at this point and she definitely shouldn’t, but she did it anyway. Even now Sansa could see her high in the sky fighting courageously. She was incredible. Sansa was a Stark, she could be brave, too. 

Sansa and Sandor had been married for three years. Three years that the couple had spent almost entirely apart, forever writing letters, trying to make the good choices and somehow always feeling like they had failed. Sansa and Sandor had seen each other rarely, even though it was enough for Sandor to make Sansa heavy with two children. Their growing family was about the only success without a bitter aftertaste. Even getting Winterfell hadn’t felt as victorious as it should have. Sansa had had a great vision of all the problems miraculously solving themselves by her good will, she was determined to beat all misery with prayers. But it wasn’t quite so peaceful in the end.

Sansa didn’t want to rule by force like Joffrey or the Boltons, she wanted her people to choose her themselves, she counted on the North truly remembering. It worked, even a little too much. Lord Bolton had apparently been murdered along with his wife by his own bastard son Ramsay. Ramsay probably wasn’t very sane and if the stories were to be believed, he was even crueller than Joffrey. Ramsay’s style of rule certainly did not make much sense to Sansa, so it was not surprising when Hother Umber gave Sandor Ramsay’s head. It was horribly mutilated. He had run, Hother said. Even when they had disarmed him, Ramsay continued to fight like a crazy man, laughing, biting the men, stunning his opponents for a moment. And then he run, he run so fast the dogs had to chase him down and they tore him to shreds. The brutality of the act shocked Sansa at first, but when she met Hother in person again, she only briefly expressed her displeasure about the barbarity and she fully accepted Hother’s gesture. Sandor had kept his promise. He always did. The North was theirs and it was loyal. Sansa had come to her home with little Eddard Clegane Stark in her arms, finding many things at ruins and even more people lost. 

Sansa now climbed down into the darkness of the crypt. What a fitting place to use for hiding. The Wall had fallen and now everything north of Winterfell was dead. People dead. Animals dead. House Bolton was gone. House Glover gone. House Umber gone. House Karstark gone forever. Only some daughters hadn’t died. Yet. Like the only living daughter of House Karstark, Alys, who wasn’t using her maiden name anymore. She was Alys Thenn now, hiding under Winterfell, crouching next to the Robb Stark’s tomb. She had been so brave for so long, sometimes bravest of all, but even she was now trembling, crying into her baby son’s hair. Alys had heard that her beloved husband had been wounded, possibly dead and Sansa couldn’t cheer her up ever since. Perhaps she would be the same when… no, she wouldn’t think about that.

Sansa stopped by her mother’s tomb. Arya was standing there, looking at the face in stone, as if she could will the woman back to life.

“Do you think Jon will manage to kill the Night’s King?” Arya asked silently.

“Of course he will.”

Arya raised her eyebrows. “I asked you for your opinion. Your real opinion, Sansa.”

“Each time I had an opinion I was wrong,” Sansa smiled sadly. “Which gives us a lot of hope.”

Arya smirked and nodded. “You can’t blame yourself, you know?” she said then, looking back at their mother. ”Neither of us really understood what was happening in King’s Landing. We were both young and stupid.”

“If I shouldn’t blame myself, neither should you,” Sansa replied gently.

“That’s different. Father didn’t kill himself, he was murdered.”

“Our mother died in the Red Wedding, she was murdered, too, Arya. The woman that you saw afterwards was just her shadow,” Sansa embraced her sister, stroking her hair. “She did the right thing. And you did, too.”

Arya breathed out into Sansa’s hair. “It still hurts,” she said in a small voice.

Sansa didn’t have anything to say to it, so she just hugged Arya tighter. They stood together in embrace next to their parents’ graves, world around them freezing, world above them burning, everything awful and hopeless. Being with her sister in moments like this was one of the greatest blessings for Sansa. It kept her sane. Arya had gone through a lot in the years they had been apart and she had grown into an amazing woman. Seeing her always made Sansa’s heart swell with pride. This was her very own sister.

Arya had served Tywin Lannister without him even knowing and it was a bitter irony that the very same man later orchestrated a wedding between his son Tyrion and Jeyne Poole, passing her off as Arya Stark. Lord Tywin had been scared that Sansa's escape could enable the Starks to execute Ser Jamie, and therefore, he rather chose to pretend he has another Stark at his mercy. Things did not work out exactly as he had hoped. His son Jamie lost his sword hand and Joffrey was murdered at his own wedding, according to Lady Olenna's later admission murdered by his allies, the Tyrells and Lord Baelish. And Jeyne chose a different husband for herself. When Cersei blamed Tyrion and Jeyne for Joffrey’s death, the girl was heroically rescued by Ser Bronn Blackwater and together they then both joined the Stark forces. Sansa liked seeing the Blackwaters together, but now she would probably never meet them again. She would definitely not see Tywin Lannister, for he had met his death while seated on a privy, killed by his own son Tyrion. That was one wight Sansa did not wish to meet.

At the time of Tywin Lannister’s privy accident Arya had already been traveling with the Brotherhood without banners. When the Brotherhood found the corpse of Catelyn Stark, Ser Beric Dondarrion passed the flame of life to her, giving his own life for hers. The body lived again, but Catelyn Stark did not. She rose from dead as Lady Stoneheart instead and according to Arya the new woman was cruel and knew no mercy. It wasn’t their mother anymore. Arya had appreciated Lady Stoneheart’s thirst for vengeance at first, but later she grew disgusted with it all and fled to seek out Jon. She didn’t get to enjoy his presence for long, because he was soon killed by the brothers of the Night’s Watch. And Lady Stoneheart found her anyway. 

In her grief Arya blamed Lady Stoneheart for everything, for disliking Jon, for driving him away. Arya screamed at the woman that it was not fair that Lady Stoneheart could live to seek out vengeance, while Jon could not live and protect people as he had wanted. When Arya heard then that her new good brother Sandor arrived to the Castle Black, it was too much for her, she resented her own family at that moment, so she left. She left without seeing Sandor, she travelled to Braavos, to forget, to become an assassin, no one. She did not know how much her words had struck Lady Stoneheart, she did not know that the woman had passed the flame of life to Jon, sacrificing herself for him. Only when Arya heard that Cersei had paid the assassins to kill Sansa, only then Arya refused to give up her identity and she saved her sister instead. It wasn't easy. After Cersei had lost all her children and became a queen, she started seeing potential enemies everywhere. Or perhaps she had always been like that and Sansa just hadn’t noticed it before. Cersei was very effective at removing her rivals and while every great house paid a painful price for her fears and Littlefinger’s ambitions, the Starks weren’t so easy to remove anymore. And neither were the Cleganes. They were a pack. It took Arya a while, but in the end she even forgave Sandor for his old crimes.

But the dead still weren’t resting in peace. Even here, in the place of rest, they were disturbed by dozens of women and even more children hiding themselves from dragonfire. The winter was there and the dead came with it. Even dead animals and a dragon. Sansa found wights and their cold scent very unappealing. Under different circumstances, she would have perhaps laughed. All she had believed about love had been proven wrong. And all she had disbelieved about the Others had been true all along. Except one little detail. Faith could not protect a man from the Others. Even the wall of Winterfell had not withstood for long.

“You said the barrels are filled with supplies, Your Grace,” Ser Davos Seaworth told her silently. He was a man of common appearance, nothing distinguished, but he was an honest and loyal man. And that was enough. He had protected Rickon, he had brought him to Sansa and for that she would be forever grateful to him. Sansa always spoke openly to him.

“I did.”

“I didn’t take you for a liar.”

Sansa only raised an eyebrow at the man.

“I’m not very fond of wildfire, as you could guess,” Ser Davos said. 

“Then don’t speak of it aloud,” Sansa reprimanded him. “I will always take care of my people, Ser Davos. In life as well as in death. The dead may come, but I will not let them go any further. One way or another.”

Sansa turned away from the Onion Knight, gathered her skirts and climbed up the stairs again. She wanted to be with her family, she wanted to hold her children in her arms, she wanted to kiss them, she wanted to be held and kissed by Sandor. But she was a queen. She was not allowed to rest. And so she left the crypt and let a knife-edge of icy air cut into her face again. She had to know how they were faring in the battle. She had to know. She could still see Jon flying and Daenerys, too. But the third, dead dragon was up in the sky just as well, though kept far enough from Winterfell for now. Men were still fighting, still breathing. Their breath floated like smoke around them in the freezing cold air. And the real smoke was there, too. Much more smoke than breath.

“Little bird,” a weak rasp roused her from her thoughts.

“Sandor!” Sansa rushed to her husband’s side, kissing his dirtied face with relief. “Sandor! You are here! You are here! How… how…” What could she ask, what could she say? She didn’t know, so she hugged Sandor tightly, not caring about the rotting stench of him.

“The fire… it’s everywhere," he murmured. "Everywhere. Everything’s burning. Not only the wights, ours are burning, too. They’re burning, Sansa, their skin… flesh… their bones… They’re burning. Everything is burning,” he took a long pull from a flagon of wine. He was drunk. Sandor hadn’t been drunk since King’s Landing. 

Sansa cupped his cheek with her fingers. He was crying. Gods have mercy, her fearless husband was crying. He never cried. Sansa had always thought he could not even be afraid of anything, her inhuman husband with wild manners and giant blood. But he was just a man. He was a man. He was afraid of fire, of course he was afraid of fire. She was afraid, too, and she had never been burnt like him. He was a man. And he was crying now. 

“Sandor,” she hugged him, kissing him. “Stay with me. You’ve been fighting for so long, nobody can ask for more. Stay with me. We’ll hide together in the crypt with Ed and Aenor, we’ll stay together.”

The burnt corner of his mouth twitched. “I swore I’d protect you…”

“You’ve always protected me,” she kisses his hooked nose. “You’ve done enough. Don’t go back there, Sandor. We’ll stay together. I don’t want to be without you anymore.”

“I failed… I failed…” 

“You didn’t. You never fail!” Sansa kissed him again, getting no response from him. “Sandor, look at me. We’ll stay together, do you understand? We’ll stay together. What can I do for you? What do you want?”

“Want?” his mouth twitched again, his face twisted in a horrible grimace of utter defeat. “You, Sansa. I’ve always wanted you. Your heart, your thoughts… I thought I had it all. At the beginning, at first… I thought I had it. I believed it, little bird, I really did.”

“You do have it, Sandor. My heart is yours, don’t you know it?”

“Is it? Is it really?” he moved his face to hers, looking deep into her eyes, stroking her hair clumsily with his bloodied hand. There was still the defeat in his eyes, but there was some hope shining at her as well. “Then show me, little bird. Show me it’s real. It’s been so long, so awfully long. Let me feel it once more… one more time feeling you’re mine, you’re truly mine.”

He wrapped his arms around Sansa and kissed her neck beside her ear, exposing more of her skin, warming it with his breath. Sansa bit her lip. It felt so good. She wanted to be alone with her husband, far away from the world. Just the two of them. Just more of this, more of their closeness. They hadn’t shared bed for almost half a year and Sansa now wanted to be as close to Sandor as possible. He was a man after all. He was no Hound, he wasn’t strong because of giant blood, he was strong all by himself. He had his fears, too, just like Sansa. He was a man. And he was so brave. Sansa wanted to feel him, all of him. She wanted to feel him inside her and she didn’t care what the gods thought of it. She was tired of death, she wanted to feel her husband’s life instead. “Show me it’s real, little bird,” he rasped, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. “Sing to me. Just one more time. Like in the old days, before all this… Just let me know it’s real. Sing to me, little bird,” he begged her, leaving hot kisses on her skin.

Sansa swallowed. She wanted to get lost in the feeling, she wanted to feel Sandor’s hard body pressed against hers. He was magnificent and Sansa never felt cold in his arms. She wanted to touch him freely now, admire the strength he had shown despite his fears. They would all die soon, she wanted to forget about propriety at least this once… but she wanted to make Sandor happy even more. So she stifled a moan and opened her mouth to do as he bid. “Gentle Mother, font of mercy,” she started singing in a small, tremulous voice, “save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way…”

Sandor stilled his movements, staying motionless for a long moment. Then he pulled away from her, his eyes closed and face streaked with tears. Why wasn’t he kissing her anymore? Sansa pressed her lips to his cheek, but when Sandor looked at her, his eyes were even more pained than before. “It’s not, is it?” he whispered brokenly. “It’s never been real. All this time… and it's all just been in my head.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” Sansa asked, confused.

He let out a small, desperate chuckle. “Always so courteous. Always so obedient. So kind, so beautiful,” he touched his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “Of course it was just in my head. It could never be real.”

He took his bloodied sword and stroked Sansa’s hair gently, gazing down at her in adoration. “I love you, little bird. I love our children. No matter what you feel for me, I won’t let you die.”

Sandor put his helmet on and stepped outside, among burning men.


	13. Chapter 13

They had won. They really had. Seeing all the dragons die had been tragic enough, but when Daenerys died from her injuries and her son was born as her body was already turning cold, it was too much for everybody. Daenerys had been a symbol. A symbol of many good things as well as bad. But she had been an important symbol and with her dragons she had brought hope to the North. And she was dead. Her dragons were dead. It should have crushed Jon and Sandor’s determination, and yet it had the opposite. Anger. Sandor’s old friend was always welcome in midst of battle and it worked on Jon, too. Anger got them to the Others. Anger let Sandor overlook the flames. Anger made Sandor fight several Others at once. Anger allowed him to keep their icy swords away from Jon so that the young man could fight his own battle undisturbed. Anger allowed Jon to fight the Night’s King without fear. Two men of the blood of the Starks battled with the Night’s King, Bran fighting the monster’s cold mind and Jon fighting his body. They fought and they won, but at the cost of their own lives. The Others were defeated forever and the North prevailed. So many good people were dead and Sandor lived anyway.

Sandor didn’t know how to console his beautiful wife. He didn’t know what to say, how to act. He wanted, he needed to make Sansa happy, to take away her pain, but it was impossible. She had lost too much and Sandor had nothing to give her. She didn’t love him, it had all just been in his head. She didn’t love him, she didn’t want him. She never had. Their love had been Sandor’s sole motivation for so long, he still couldn’t bear the thought of it not being real. He had done everything just for her, for their love. And it hadn’t been real. Sandor had no idea what to do about it, how to proceed. He had no idea how to make Sansa happy. For now he just contended himself with watching Sansa cradle little Aemon against her chest. The Targaryen child was much smaller than any of their own, he looked very pink and fragile. Little Aenor was just two moons old and she looked like she could eat the other baby for breakfast. Sandor took her into his arms and the girl decided it was an opportune moment to relieve herself, smiling at him brightly. She was perfect. Their perfect little princess. At least this was real.

Aenor had her mother’s lips, Sandor could see that. A beautiful, innocent smile. She would be just as kind as Sansa. Sansa… Sandor gazed up at his wife. Grief had given her a vulnerable look that somehow made her even more angelic. How could have Sandor ever believed she would love him? She was perfect and he was just an ugly, bedraggled dog. Sansa had probably thought she was obliged to marry him just like in the stories, where brave knights saved beautiful maidens and got to marry them as a reward. She had obediently borne his kisses, she had obediently taken him into her body. She had wanted none of it, not really. And Sandor had done it anyway. What did it make him? Another Gregor? Another fancy lord like Robert, who had never respected his wife’s wishes and hurt her out of selfishness? Sandor was too revolted to even think about it any further.

This was their family now. Shireen, Rickon, their own two children and now Aemon. Their family was certainly a little unconventional, but Sandor was already used to it. When he had first had a chance to introduce himself as Sansa’s husband to his good mother, she stank of rotten meat and had a slit in her throat. Well, their acquaintance certainly didn’t last long, because a mere hour after Lady Stoneheart met Sandor, she rather gave a kiss of life to her husband’s nephew known as his bastard son. And so Sandor didn’t have a half-dead good mother, he had a half-dead good brother instead. Or cousin. Or whatever. And then he got to meet Rickon, of course, who immediately bit him. No, he was no Stark at all, he claimed, he was stoneborn, he was a Skagosi. And he was fucking crazy. Then Bran arrived. Bran, who, what a surprise, wasn’t Bran at all, he was a three-eyed crow instead. He certainly had emotional capacities of a crow, so he didn’t even mind when Sandor introduced himself as a half-faced dog. And then came Arya, claiming that she was not Arya at all, she was no one. Sandor had always dreamt of having a complete family. And this was certainly a family of dreams. And nightmares. That was before Sandor even knew that his dear brother traded his own head for immortality. No family was perfect.

How would they live together now? Sandor should have perhaps died instead of Jon, it would have made things much easier for Sansa. But what now? At least Sandor didn’t have to solve the problem immediately. He would ride off to King’s Landing and they would both have time to think their future through.

Sandor checked everything was prepared for the journey. Deep in thoughts, he cleaned his armour all by himself, polishing it to brightest sheen. He even sharpened his newest sword. He didn’t like it anymore. Sure, it had been very effective at killing the Others, that was why he kept it after all, but the bloody thing had a mind of its own. Since Sandor had slain the Red Witch, his sword had picked up a habit of unexpectedly lighting itself up, happily bursting in flames. A bloody stupid conjurer’s trick, as far as Sandor was concerned. There were way too many buggering flaming swords in the world. At least Sandor’s sword never overdid it like all the other ones and it had behaved properly ever since the Others were gone. Sandor dearly hoped it had had its fill of fire.

Sandor had spent the last two years travelling from one place to another, leading one battle after another. He had proven himself as a surprisingly successful military commander, but the war was over now and winter was here. With so many casualties of the war, everybody now had to do more things than just one. Ealdwyne was a first-in-command of the northern fleet, but he was also responsible for the transportation of all the supplies, which was an even harder task. Sandor, too, would retain the position of the commander of the northern armed forces, but he had to accept a new role as well. It was time for peace negotiations and treaties, it was time to establish new political arrangements on a permanent basis. And Sandor was to represent the North in King’s Landing. The Queen in the North had to stay with their little children and she had to take care of the restoration and resettlement of the devastated land. Sandor wasn’t the best man for a diplomatic mission, but after Jon’s demise he was the only man who could do it.

Sandor didn’t like thinking about all his new responsibilities, but he liked thinking about his marriage even less. Thinking about Sansa had always been a source of great comfort to him, but now Sansa haunted him in his sleep. She didn’t love him. She didn’t want him. She never had. And he had claimed her anyway. She had hated it. She had cried. All the little sounds that she had made were not signs of pleasure, they had been signs of fear. He had hurt her. She didn’t love him. The same gruelling nightmare he had dreamt every night since the Battle of Winter, the same one made him once again toss and turn in his restless sleep. But this time he was startled half-awake by something jabbing him in his right shoulder. “My love, are you asleep?”

Sandor immediately lurched sideways and gripped the thing that was poking him. He was prepared to kill the attacker even though his own eyes were barely open.

„Sandor?“ A soft voice brought him back to reality. He was crushing Sansa’s delicate hand, so he released it immediately. Sansa. His wife. What was she doing here? She didn’t love him.

Sansa was sitting on his bed with a lamp in her hand. She was biting her lip and looking like a fucking goddess. She couldn’t try to be at least a little ugly just once, could she?

“Little bird, what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t come to my chamber,” Sansa pouted. 

“Well, I usually don’t…”

“Aenor is over two moon’s turns old,” she informed him.

“I know,” he nodded and frowned. “Little bird, what in the seven hells are you wearing? You’ll freeze!” he snarled, covering her immediately in furs.

“You could keep me warm,” she suggested shyly. 

“Sansa, you need to rest.”

“We have both spent the last week resting and grieving and resting. I’ve had enough of it, Sandor.”

Sansa put her cold hand on his naked chest, her blush apparent even in the dim light of Sandor’s bedchamber. Seven blood hells, he was hard and he couldn’t be hard, because she didn’t want it. Not truly. Sandor had to be strong, he could control himself, he could. He really could.

Sansa looked at him through half-lidded eyes, biting her lip hesitantly before she leaned in and kissed Sandor. She kissed him. Sansa Stark was kissing him. Of her own free will. Why was she kissing him? She didn’t love him, she wasn’t supposed to kiss him. Sandor wanted to voice his protest, but when his mouth opened under hers, she took the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth. Fuck. Sandor had Sansa Stark’s tongue in his mouth. That had never happened before. Was he dreaming? She was soft and so damn sweet, Sandor couldn’t form one coherent thought. She was kissing him, and it was perfect, her hand smoothing over his chest. His chest? No, no, his chest. His scars, his scars. Seven bloody hells, she couldn’t be touching his chest, it was bad enough that she didn’t want him, Sandor didn’t want her to be repulsed as well.

“You’re so strong,” she used about the only compliment that was true about him. “So brave.”

“Stop it, Sansa, what are you doing?” he rasped.

“Trying to warm myself, if I may,” she smiled at him mischievously. 

Right now, Sandor himself was sweating profusely and he was sure Sansa could feel his heart pounding beneath her tender palms. “Your… your chamber is the warmest one, little bird.”

“Not enough.”

“Should I call the maid to do something about it?”

“I don’t need a maid now,” she kissed him, lingering to nibble on his lower lip, then kissed her way to his ear. What was she doing? Sansa never behaved like that, she hadn’t even returned his kisses in years! Had she injured her head? Was she ill? Had the grief driven her to madness? 

“We can… we can… we can bring more furs into your chamber, if you want,” Sandor offered. A shuddering breath blew from his mouth as Sansa pulled his earlobe between her teeth, nipping at it with sensuous ease.

“Not enough,” she whispered to him.

It almost felt as if… no, of course not. He was just imagining things again. He couldn’t take Sansa like this, he did not want her unwilling. He had yet to figure out what to do next, how to proceed. But what was she trying to do? Did she think she owed him something, did she think she had to show him her gratitude?

“So strong,” she purred, her hand tracing his stomach muscles, which in response clenched further. Sandor grabbed fistfuls of the sheet at his sides, desperately trying to steady his breathing. He hadn’t touched her naked body for half a year, how was he supposed to control himself? He wanted to go back to pitying himself, he didn’t want Sansa in his bed. „Sansa! Sansa, what are you doing? We both know you don’t really want…” 

She kissed him. Open mouth, her soft tongue seeking his. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” she told him in a hoarse voice. Since when had she have a hoarse voice? He was the one here who rasped. “And tonight I want to be with you.”

“Want?” he repeated, incredulous. “What do you want, little bird? What do you really want?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Not to me,” he assured her. Everything that had seemed obvious to him had been proven wrong. He needed to hear. 

“I want… I…” she murmured, embarrassed. “Do not make me say it out loud, my lord, please,” she whined. “You know… Our marital duty…”

"Seven hells!” he roared, pushing her away. “Bugger the marital duty, bugger this all, I want…”

Sandor’s voice died, when Sansa demurely lowered her lashes, her blush deepening and she slipped out of her dressing gown. She was naked. She was sitting on his bed, naked. Motherhood had only enhanced her womanly features and she had blossomed into an even greater, astonishing beauty. And she was naked. Shoulders, naked. Her perfect teats, naked. Her pebbled nipples, naked. Her pale stomach, naked. Her… Seven hells. Sansa’s small hand started to trail soft circles on Sandor’s stomach, making him shudder and shiver. What was she doing? Why? Who had allowed her to do that? Should Sandor say something? Her hand slipped down, following the line of hair from his chest to his groin and Sandor once again forgot how to speak. And then… then she wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock.

“Seven hells,” Sandor yelped in a tiny, completely unmanly voice. Her hand. Around his cock. As it had never been before. Touching him, stroking him. What... what?!

“You feel so good. Do you not want me, Sandor?” she asked innocently.

Bugger it all. Sandor couldn’t take this anymore, he was just a man. He’d gone too long without her. He quickly rolled his wife onto her back, kissing her fiercely, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. A duty. This should never be a duty. She was so soft, so wonderful. It could never be a duty to him. Why did it have to be a duty to her? Sandor trailed his hand over her body, lingering on her breasts, cupping them, kneading them. It had been so long. And she was so fucking perfect, her changing body every time even more stunning then before. With his knee, Sandor spread Sansa’s legs wide, touching her between them after so many many moons. Sandor nudged her silky folds, parting them, teasing Sansa to accept him. She was wet, she was sopping wet. Not for him. How could she be wet? It was one of the myths, of course, in reality it had nothing to do with her wanting him. But it felt so good, it felt so fucking good. Sansa’s beautiful, slim thighs shook and she clenched around him as he entered her swiftly and deeply. 

Sandor was kissing her with furious passion, silencing all her dutiful chirping. He didn’t care about duty. He wanted her, he needed her. Her hands roamed over Sandor’s shoulders and back and then… she cupped his butt. Seven hells, what did she think she was doing? Her fingers were just an inch away from that bad spread scar she probably didn’t know about. Sandor held her wrists down. Sansa couldn’t touch him, not now, not ever. It was the least he could do, never let her discover all the ugliness that was his body. As if it wasn’t enough what he was doing to her now. He drove into her in hard, long strokes, was it what she wanted? Did she think it made her a good wife, when she arched her back into him, arched and arched, when she writhed under him, until he couldn’t stifle his groans and fucked her even harder? Did she think it was a sign of a healthy marriage, when his seed erupted deep inside her and Sandor couldn’t catch his breath for a long time, completely overwhelmed? Did she think it was a good thing? It wasn’t. Sandor felt horrible afterwards, he felt like a monster. He didn’t want this, he wanted Sansa’s love. He wanted her to miss him, really miss him, when he was away. He wanted her to dream about him, to touch herself thinking about him. He wanted her to smile like a fool when reading his letters, just like he did, whenever he received hers. He wanted her to lose herself in their lovemaking, to look forward to it every time. He wanted all those things she could never give to him. Because when he looked into the mirror, there was indeed a monster staring back at him.

Sandor left for King’s Landing at dawn, before Sansa even woke up. He left drunk and disgusted with himself, without making his farewells. What in the seven hells he would do about his marriage, he did not know.


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa was frustrated. She wanted her husband to be right there, by her side. Why did it take him so long? Sandor had been gone for almost five months. Five months! Sansa understood that a lot of things had happened in King’s Landing and there was even more to discuss, but five months? Sansa wrote to her husband one letter after another, but his replies were all very short and completely unsatisfying. When she had sent him a lock of her hair as ladies in stories often did, he sent her warm gloves. Gloves! Why didn’t he send her lock of his hair back? Sandor had beautiful hair, soft. Sansa would put the lock under her pillow and they would meet in their dreams. Or was it a myth?

After her experience with the Others, Sansa couldn’t tell anymore what was real and what was just a myth. Even Gregor had walked around King’s Landing without his head. According to Sandor a loss of head couldn’t have made much difference in Gregor’s case, but it did not seem very proper to Sansa anyway. Sandor had killed whatever had been left of his brother in King’s Landing and Sansa was glad for it. Cersei was dead and Sansa was glad for that, too. She wasn’t joyful over their deaths, but she couldn’t find it in herself to regret them, either. Her prayers for Cersei’s and Gregor’s souls were very brief, because Sansa needed to use her time to pray for her husband’s early return instead. The negotiations took much longer than Sansa had expected. She needed their whole family to be together. They had spent almost their entire marriage apart and Sansa would not tolerate it any longer. She wanted her husband to be there, so that she could talk with him about Aenor’s impressive crawling abilities, about Aemon’s first teeth and Ed’s obsession with puppies. 

Puppies. Oh, the puppies. When the dragons and Ghost had died during the Battle of Winter, Arya’s former direwolf, Nymeria emerged from the forest with an entire pack of wolves and along with Sandor and Rickon’s Shaggydog they fought the Night’s King guard, making way for Jon. But Nymeria was horrifically wounded and when her pups were born, she was simply not able to take care of them. The direwolf trusted the Starks. Even when her wounds had been healed and she returned to the forest, Nymeria left the pups with them. One of the pups looked almost like Lady and they all somehow seemed to improve the spirits in the castle. The direwolves had definitely returned to the North and with them came the northern independence. 

But Sansa’s children often behaved more like Cleganes then Starks. For one, they truly liked the kennels. Sansa had never spent any time in the kennels! Sansa’s son Ed was just three years old, but he was already determined to become a dog, when he was older. Nobody confessed to telling Ed about the Hound and it seemed to be an entirely his own idea. Which somehow made it even more disturbing. Ed liked to carry the two babies to the kennels, trying to teach them how to bark properly. And Sansa dearly hoped the future King in the North would grow out of his barking habits sooner than his father. It was already clear Ed would have the stature of a Clegane.

Sansa wanted to know Sandor’s insight on their children’s behaviour, she wanted to hear him say how beautiful they were. Sansa didn’t care what people thought about Ed’s large nose and Aemon’s strangely pale body, they were very beautiful children and she wanted to hear it. She wanted to hear that she herself looked beautiful in her new dress. Sandor never forgot to mention how beautiful she looked and he always said it with so much awe and love mingled together it made Sansa’s heart clench. She wanted to hear it again. Did he not think her beautiful anymore? Sansa had given birth to two children, so her body had changed. She had wider hips now and she wasn’t skinny anymore, but she preferred it that way. Did Sandor find it unappealing?

Sansa imagined every night her husband next to her, kissing her, touching her. Would he still like her body? She wanted him to touch it. She wouldn’t reject him again. When she was dreaming about her husband, Sansa’s own hands roamed over her body instead of his. She caressed her body, she stroked her own hair, imagining Sandor burying his face into it as he so loved to do. It felt different, her hands were too soft and not strong enough, she could never even surprise herself by an unexpected touch. But it felt good, it helped her imagination. She could almost make herself believe it was Sandor touching her. Sansa even teased her nipples, but then she felt too wicked and rather stopped and prayed to the gods.

It didn’t help. The following day Sansa’s impure thoughts were even more insistent than before. She wondered why Sandor had never allowed her to touch him. He had such an impressive build. He wasn’t a giant of course, but he was almost just as strong. Sansa had even got used to his hairy chest and stomach and she could almost find it attractive. 

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Ser Davos interrupted her thoughts. “The works had been halted again.”

“I know, I have seen the weather myself, Ser Davos,” Sansa nodded. “For now we will focus on the interiors, but whenever the weather allows it, the works on the roofs have to continue. Use every moment possible.”

“I’m afraid that’s not so easy, Your Grace.”

“That is why I have charged you with this responsibility, Ser Davos,” Sansa smiled at him sweetly. “There will be many more people coming to Winterfell soon, we simply need more space, more rooms. I have no doubt you will succeed.”

“But we are not even done building the walls!” Ser Davos protested.

“Leave it then. The roofs are a priority, the walls will have to wait. What we have built so far, is enough to protect us from animals or an attack of bandits. As far as anything else goes, Winterfell has no real defences anyway, taller walls make no difference at the moment. We need more space for people first.”

“I know, Your Grace. You’re right, of course, it’s just that… to make the roofs in this weather, we’d better get some giants,” the man let out a tired sigh. “Gods know, how anyone can otherwise climb on a ladder without breaking their neck.”

“As I said, it will be done whenever the weather allows it. First the roofs, only then the wall,” Sansa clarified and pondered the man’s statement for a moment. “You do realize my husband does not have giant blood, don’t you, Ser Davos?” she asked him with suspicion.

“Your Grace?” he seemed surprised.

“Lord Sandor is not a giant.”

“I’ve never said so, Your Grace.”

“I understand why you would think that. Lord Sandor truly is big in every sense of the word,” Sansa agreed dreamily. Sandor had a huge body, a great mind and a heart so big he had enough love for Sansa’s siblings and even for Shireen. He was amazing.

“Well…” the man scratched his beard. “Good for you I guess. It’s just… I really hope the winds won’t last for long, because nobody can really work in this.”

It had never been a good idea to welcome the winter with reconstruction works. This was the time when everything should have been in the best condition, the castle shining even more brilliantly than ever, the granaries of Winterfell should have been overflowing, stores full, people fat. Instead of that there was a lot of despair in Sansa’s land. The Boltons hadn’t done the North any favours and the winter began with a terrible war. But Sansa had to deal with what she had. The devastated northern part of Winterfell would have to wait for reconstruction later. Sansa prayed no enemy would come their way in the winter, because Winterfell now truly had no proper defences left. The granaries had however been constantly filled and Ealdwyne’s ships arrived every week. Ealdwyne Mollen along with his several friends were now northern lords holding substantial lands. Sansa knew that her father and Robb would disagree with her choice. Was it ideal to have pirates and smugglers for lords? No, but Sansa had a lot of lordless lands on her hands and not many people who could bring the much needed food to Winterfell. She could deal with her new nobility. She could not defeat hunger without food.

Sandor’s expanding lands in Essos had proven to be essential to the restoration of the North. Sandor maintained that the land belonged to both of them, but Sansa couldn’t agree with it anymore. She was a queen now and she doubted the Myrish landowners would welcome an involvement of a Westerosi crown in their neighbourhood. Sansa’s claim over the property could cause yet another conflict, a conflict she preferred to avoid. The lands in Essos were solely Sandor’s private property. One day they could perhaps be given to Arya, Rickon, or one of the children. Or, when Sansa and Sandor themselves would be too old to survive a harsh winter, they could move there themselves. There were many possibilities. But for now, Clegane properties needed a new steward. And Sansa knew just the man.

“I really hope it’s warmer in Essos,” Ser Bronn’s teeth chattered.

“Come inside,” Sansa bid the couple. “I am so glad the winds have finally tired of their constant blowing and I can welcome you both to Winterfell again.”

“There are three of us,” Jeyne pointed out.

“Women,” Ser Bronn rolled his eyes, tenderly helping his wife inside. “Jeyne always keeps talking about the babe. It’s as if Vayon was the only child in the world or something,” he complained. “It’s true that he is strong, you can already tell,” he took the child in his arms, showing him to Sansa.

“Indeed,” Sansa smiled.

Ser Bronn gave a satisfied nod. “He can already sit and he steals food, when we’re not watching, the clever bugger. Milk’s not enough for him, it seems. Can the Targaryen child sit?”

“No, not yet.”

“See?” Bronn smiled proudly, gently laying the child into his wife’s arms. 

Sansa carefully observed the couple. Jeyne was obviously proud to show Bronn around her birthplace. Jeyne glanced at him with a beaming smile, when he draped a shawl around her shoulders, and they exchanged secret touches here and there. Sansa had thought Ser Bronn had no morals at all, but he’d cared for Jeyne enough to risk his life several times just to keep her safe. Ser Bronn still wasn’t a good man, but he was a good man for Essos. He’d get paid more than well in his new position, he’d do his job more than well, too. If Sandor had been able to do it without hurting the people, so would Ser Bronn.

“Vayon is handsome, isn’t he?” Jeyne showed off her child once more. “Like his father. I know it’s a little shallow, but I still think it’s important for a man to be attractive,” Jeyne smiled dreamily and then seemed to freeze, blinking rapidly. “I mean… it’s not so important of course… there are other… traits. Looks are not everything.”

“No, I understand you,” Sansa nodded enthusiastically, imagining her own husband and her own beautiful son. “I am very pleased to have an attractive husband, too, and I see nothing wrong with admitting it.”

Bronn sharply turned his head around and stared at Sansa, blinking. “Who are you talking about?” he asked curiously.

“I…” Jeyne turned to him, confused. “I’m not quite sure right now.”

“We were just saying how glad we are to have such attractive husbands,” Sansa smiled at the man. “My husband is very handsome.”

“The Hound? Clegane?”

“Of course, you know my husband.”

“Well, it’s good to know I’m just as attractive as the Hound,” Ser Bronn grinned. “He’s a great man, I’m sure,” he added hastily.

“He is! And he is so handsome, you wouldn’t believe it!” 

“Don’t say."

Sansa pictured Sandor’s strong jaw and manly nose and those beautiful silver eyes. And eyebrows... well, Sandor had only one, but was it not a proof of the impressiveness of his brow, when one was enough?

And Sandor had scars, so many scars. Sansa had already decided that those scars were a testament to Sandor’s bravery, to his resilience. They were the mark of a true fighter, of a fierce and courageous man. No other man had so many horrible scars, because no other man was strong enough to survive so much horror. Sandor was the strongest of men, certainly in spirits. And that was the most attractive trait a man could possess, was it not? How could have Sansa ever perceived his scars as ugly? It hurt her to imagine the pain her husband had suffered, but his scars were amazing, because Sandor was amazing to survive his wounds. Sansa wanted to kiss the scars. All of them. They only added to Sandor’s manly looks. And Sansa loved Sandor’s manly looks. His strength and resilience had saved her and the entire North. Sansa had been so blind, how could she have not seen it? Sandor was handsome! He was such an amazing knight, he didn’t even need a knight’s title for it, but Sansa wanted everyone to know how magnificent he was anyway.

“Did you know he does not have giant blood?” Sansa informed her friends.

“What?” Bronn asked rudely.

“Lord Sandor is not a giant. He is a man.”

“And here I was thinking he’s a dog,” Bronn laughed, silenced only by a nudge of his wife’s elbow. “My apologies,” he murmured.

“He is Lord Sandor now,” Sansa replied dryly. “Everybody thinks he has blood of giants coursing through his veins…”

“Who thinks that?” Bronn raised his eyebrows. He was starting to annoy Sansa.

“…but he does not. He is strong and brave like that even without giant’s blood.”

“Great. I mean… great.”

He didn’t understand it. Nobody appreciated how great Sandor was. And Sansa had been just as stupid as everybody else. Sansa sighed in exasperation. She didn’t know what was happening to her. She had never spent so much time thinking about her husband, but since the Battle of Winter, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head at all. Why did it take Sandor so long to come back to her? What if he had been injured in a fight with Gregor and kept it a secret so that she wouldn't worry? What if he would never come back? Sansa couldn’t help but worry. She wished she could go back to all those nights when they had been together, lying in bed, talking about everything and nothing. She wanted to take back all those times when Sandor had taken his husbandly rights and she had done everything possible to think of something else. Sansa wouldn’t have done it again. Surely the gods could appreciate the love between a husband and his wife. And Sansa loved Sandor. She loved him. The gods could never be offended by a woman giving all her love to her husband. Sansa’s mother had never been ashamed of her love for her husband, had she? Lady Catelyn just hadn’t had the time to explain it all to Sansa. That was it! Of course there was nothing wrong with physical love between spouses. It was the right thing to do. It was proper.

Sansa touched herself again, imagining Sandor’s calloused hands on her. It was allowed. It was not improper to think of her husband’s love for her. She cautiously touched herself, this time even between her legs. Sansa quickly retracted her hand, but then she grew bolder and repeated the action. Sandor loved tasting her there. Sansa had always quickly rejected such advances, because it made it all too hard for her to control herself. But she wouldn’t do it again. Each time they shared their bed could easily be their last time. Sansa didn’t want to waste it again. She would enjoy her husband’s caresses and kisses, she would touch him herself, she would admire his body. 

Sandor had never allowed her to touch his own body, either, so Sansa had to convince him that the gods didn’t mind it. She was sure of it now, she could feel it in her heart. The gods didn’t mind seeing their love. Sansa would tell her husband about her new discovery, she would explain it to him and she would touch his entire body. Sandor’s muscles weren’t ugly at all, their strength had kept Sansa safe. She would kiss them. The hair covering his chest wasn’t beastly, the softness actually offered an enticing contrast to the hardness of Sandor’s muscled body. She would lay her head on his chest without hesitation. His scars were the mark of a true survivor, the rasp of his voice was so wonderfully masculine and as for his manhood… Sansa blushed, shivers running down her back. Sandor’s manhood hadn’t seemed ugly to her for quite a while, actually. It… it held a certain appeal so to say. Sansa blushed furiously and she quickly buried her face in a pillow, giggling naughtily. 

But Sansa continued to touch herself, finding one especially sensitive spot. It all suddenly started to feel a little too good, so Sansa prayed once more to make sure she truly wasn’t sinning and continued in her exploration. Her breathing hitched and she felt she was almost reaching something. Something… something… No, it wasn't possible this way. Sansa needed her husband to reach the true bliss, she was sure. She needed him there, in her bed and in her body. She needed him back in her life.

It was frustrating. But Sandor would come back to her soon. It would be difficult, but Sansa would convince him that she was right and there was nothing wrong with enjoying themselves freely, without inhibitions. Sansa was the Queen in the North. She was a Stark of Winterfell and a wolf. She would find a way to make Sandor understand.


	15. Chapter 15

Sandor looked at Winterfell. He had longed to be back, he had thought his return through. He’d been determined to gain the love of his wife, but the closer he got, the more afraid he was to see Sansa again. The war was over and Sansa didn’t need him anymore. Sandor was a good fighter, now even a good commander. He had was willing to campaign for Sansa even during the negotiations, but now that there was peace in Westeros, he was not needed. At least he was coming back victorious. The new high lords Brynden Tully and Robert Arryn were both too eager to tie their lands to the North, each for his own reasons. With Dorne gaining independence, the famed Seven Kingdoms had shrunken to the piffling Three Kingdoms. Sandor was quite curious whether the Imp would use that name or create something more Lannistery. During the winter the Imp would rule in Aemon’s place. Come spring the high lords would meet again and see what to do next. Good luck about that. Sandor’s little Aemon didn’t need any of those buggers anyway.

But for now there was peace and Sansa was a beloved queen of her own three kingdoms. Sandor had still great many obligations, but he wasn’t irreplaceable anymore and he hated it. How could he win Sansa’s affection now, when he’d been unable to do it when she truly needed him? Granted, he was a father of her children, but that didn’t make him very desirable, did it? He had shown Sansa all his strength, he had stepped into fire for her, he had defeated more white walkers in combat than anyone else. How could he ever do more than that? And Sansa had seen him cry, seven hells, she had seen him cry. Sandor was still mortified by the memory and he was sure Sansa hadn’t forgotten, either. What woman would ever be attracted to a man she’d seen weep like a babe? Probably not Sansa, but he’d be dammed if he didn’t try. Sandor had a plan. He had thought it through, he would stick to his plan and do his best to impress Sansa. 

Sandor knew what to do, of course. First he made sure his cock wouldn’t have any strength left to get any more ideas. That was a very important task and Sandor diligently saw to it. Then Sandor made sure he looked his best. At least as much as possible in this buggering weather. He would keep his distance from Sansa, he would make it clear she wasn’t obligated to do anything as far as their marriage was concerned, he would behave like a sodding knight. He would give Sansa time. He would court his own wife. He could be patient. He could. He really could.

“Sandor!” a ball of furs came rushing to Sandor even before the gate was fully opened. Sandor was confused for a moment, but then he quickly lifted Shireen up off the ground and sat her in front of himself.

“I am so happy you are here, Sandor, I thought you would never come back!”

The girl was beaming with happiness. It felt good. It was nice that there was someone missing him. But Sandor felt guilty, too. For a short moment he had thought it was Sansa, giddy with excitement to see her husband return home. It was a ridiculous idea, of course. Sansa would never do that. But still, Sandor felt a little stab of disappointment when he realized it was Shireen. And he was disappointed at himself for being disappointed.

Arya welcomed him with an honest smile. Arya and Shireen were both the same age and looking more and more like women, which made Sandor a little sad. The girls would leave them soon. But the most important thing was they’d do well in the world. Shireen would ride to Stormlands once she turned sixteen and while Sandor would regret to see her go, she’d have Davos by her side. She’d be a wise and thoughtful Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. Edric Storm wasn’t doing too badly in the Stormlands, either, but Shireen would be better at bringing people together. It was fortunate that Edric and Shireen shared a similar vision for the Stormlands. The boy seemed reliable, eager to serve Shireen and they got along well. Perhaps a little too well for Sandor’s liking. Sandor would never understand what people liked so much about Robert Baratheon’s bastards. Sandor dearly hoped that those glances between Arya and Winterfell’s smith Gendry, yet another hairless fawn, were just an invention of his own wild imagination. Arya was an annoying little wolf, but she was clever and loved Sansa deeply. She was tough enough to survive on her own and she did well in planning cruises and dealing with merchants. Sansa thought Arya could one day get a ship of her own and represent the North in faraway lands, forging new trade agreements, so the stag boy would better keep his eyes to himself. 

While Arya and Rickon welcomed Sandor almost warmly, his own son seemed very bashful at first. Only when Sandor squatted in front of Ed and opened his arms, the boy finally run into them.

“Father!” the boy squeaked, burying his face in Sandor’s neck. Ed had never been repulsed by Sandor’s scars and Sandor was grateful for it. The boy seemed bigger than any three year old Sandor had ever seen, but perhaps he had just not paid enough attention to other children. “I’m so happy you’re back!”

“Me, too, little pup, me, too,“ Sandor murmured, hugging the boy tenderly. “You remember me?”

“Of course! I draw you. Mummy draws you.”

“Draws?”

“Yes. Every night. When she tells us stories about you,” Ed replied in a conspiratorial voice. “I’ll be just like you, you know? Mummy says you’re the bravest man in the world.” 

Sandor’s voice caught in his throat. “She… she does?” he dared a quick glance at his elegant wife, who was smiling at him demurely, standing still. Sansa certainly didn’t seem very excited.

“You won’t leave us again, father, will you?” Ed continued with his little yipping.

“It’s hard to say, boy,” Sandor grumbled.

“You can’t leave. Mummy says she won’t let you go again.”

Sandor swallowed and gently placed his precious son on the ground. Ed was such an amazing child. He already seemed to have more wits than most adult highborns. Aenor was too little to really care about her father’s return and she just continued to look at the world with a very serious frown adorably creasing her brow. Aemon meanwhile dutifully slept everything through.

And Sansa… she was there. She was there, standing tall and proud, breath-taking and regal even when wrapped in furs heavier than herself. Her entire body, every minuscule movement, every gesture made Sansa look like a queen, the most exquisite flower, the most delicate bird and the most tenacious wolf. She wasn’t a fragile girl depending on Sandor anymore, she was a monarch secure and comfortable in her position. She was used to making clear decisions, giving orders, dealing with life and death situation every day. The sight of her filled Sandor with love, pride and despair all at the same time. Sansa was a true queen now, while Sandor wasn’t even a Hound anymore. He was just… Sandor. He couldn’t give his wife more than just all of himself.

Sansa was there, looking at him, smiling happily. “Welcome home, Sandor,” she took both his hands and squeezed them gently. So gently he couldn’t even feel it through all the layers of their clothes. Sansa’s voice had changed, too. It was just as sweet as ever, but it had somehow become richer, more relaxed and full of majestic grace. The stories had lied to Sansa, told her false stories about brave knights, honourable monarchs and ladies beautiful, just as much on the outside as the inside. The stories had lied, but Sansa turned them into truth. She was the beautiful lady and the honourable monarch of stories. And she made it work in real life.

“It’s good to be back,” Sandor said softly. Sansa didn’t jump him into the arms, she didn’t shower him with kisses. Of course she didn’t, why would she do that anyway?

Sansa was smiling a lot, that was good. But she didn’t even wait for Sandor to kiss her, she obviously didn’t want to be in his embrace. She only took his hand and lead him into the castle. She didn’t kiss him when he took all the furs off. She didn’t kiss him when he told her about all his accomplishments. She didn’t give him even one little kiss. She didn’t need him and she didn’t want him, either.

Sandor’s own smile was tinged with sadness when Ed introduced to him all their direwolves. Direwolves. Sandor had always dreamt of bringing Sansa a little direwolf. But instead, it became yet another thing Sansa didn’t need him for. Was Sandor completely useless to her now? Had he become just a name, just an idea of a husband clinging to the Queen in the North, but never having any meaningful role at all? Had he finally become a decoration?

Sansa mercifully cut the pleasantries short and announced that Lord Sandor had to rest after his journey. It wasn’t true, Sandor didn’t protest. His family needed time to get used to his presence, it was only wise for him to retire early. Sansa didn’t kiss him even then.

“Good night, Sansa,” Sandor told her with resignation.

Sansa smiled and closed the doors, remaining in his room. Why was she still in his room?

“Thank you, Sansa, I have everything,” he assured his beautiful wife.

“Me, too. Finally,” she breathed out and threw her arms around Sandor’s neck, pulling him down. “You are here. You are really here!” she kissed him eagerly.

Sandor stood frozen in shock, just barely managing to keep his balance. “Sansa…”

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you!” she planted soft little kisses all over his face and under his jaw.

“Sansa, what are you doing?” Sandor yelped.

Sansa nibbled at his lip and Sandor’s arms wrapped themselves around her lithe body without him even realizing it. Sansa fitted into Sandor’s arms perfectly and her sweet kisses could wake up any dead better than the Night’s King and Qyburn’s magic combined. Seven hells, this felt good, Sandor wanted… no, no. He wanted to stay calm, that was exactly what he wanted.

“I was so afraid… so afraid…” Sansa murmured into his skin.

“What… what’s happened?” Sandor managed to ask between her kisses. “Why afraid?”

Should Sandor kill someone for Sansa? How convenient, he was good at killing. He could show his wife that he wasn’t completely worthless after all.

Sansa tore her lips away, gasping for air. “I was afraid I’d never see you again, Sandor, you were gone for so long!” she complained. “It was torture, have you any idea how much I’ve missed you?”

Sandor stared into Sansa’s alluring blue eyes. Seven hells, how much he had missed this, touching Sansa, smelling her, hearing her. He had once thought she loved him. Why couldn’t it have been true? Why couldn’t she love him? He’d do anything for her. But what more could he do?

“Sandor,” she said in a husky voice, removing his jerkin, pushing Sandor to step backwards. 

The man did as she wanted. “Sansa, what are you doing?”

“Trying to undress you,” she threw even his doublet down onto the floor and tried to pull the shirt over his head.

Sandor straightened up, making it impossible for Sansa to kiss him or undress him further. He had to stay calm. He had to stay calm. “Why? Sansa, stop it, we can’t do this!”

“We can, Sandor,” she murmured against his skin as her warm lips traced over his collarbone, making him shiver. “There is nothing improper about it, I assure you. After all, it is our duty to cherish our marriage.”

Sandor saw red, pushing Sansa firmly away. Duty. Always the duty. The buggering gods could all collectively shove the marital duty up their seven arses. Sandor wanted a loving wife, not a pious slave. “Seven bloody hells, I don’t want your duty, Sansa!” he snarled, clenching fists together, his chest rising up and down in fast, angry pants.

“You do not want me, my lord?” she chirped, cocking her head like a little bird.

“Damn it, girl, of course, I want you!” Sandor barked. “I’ve always wanted you. But not like this, I don’t want you unwilling!”

“Good,” she started unhooking her bodice in a slow, tantalizing movement, rendering Sandor speechless. He couldn’t help but watch as Sansa took off several layers of her clothing and his mouth fell open when she took off even the stays. She stood in front of him just in her shift, looking like a fragile butterfly of heavens. “Will you take the shirt off, my lord, or do I have to cut it off you?” she asked courteously, interrupting Sandor’s musing. Always courteous. Even as a queen Sansa continued with all the dutiful chirping.

“No, little bird. I won’t take it off,” Sandor grabbed her hands, touching his forehead to hers, trying to calm himself down. This wasn’t the new beginning he’d been hoping for. He had to make Sansa understand, he couldn’t let her think of their marriage in terms of duty. “You are the most precious thing in the world, little bird,” he explained in a pleading voice. “I want us to be together, but only when you really want it. You have no obligation to me, do you understand?”

She pulled her small hands out of his grasp and cupped his ugly face with them, kissing him. “I do. And I want you now,” she whispered, blushing. She couldn’t even look him in the eyes, when she said it.

Sandor frowned. Why did she think she had to tell him such damned lies? Why couldn’t she just loosen up around him and be herself? “No, you don’t,” he growled. “Look, Sansa, I’ve thought about our marriage a lot and… I think we should just try to start all over again, what do you say?”

“Very well,” Sansa pressed her mouth to his again, taking another step, forcing Sandor to back up until he bumped the edge of the bed. “I have thought about us, too, Sandor. Do you want to know what I imagined?” she asked throatily.

“Yes, of course. I mean…” When she took his lip between her teeth, Sandor quickly pulled away. “Sansa, stop it. From now on you should do only whatever…”

Sansa put her hands in the centre of Sandor’s chest and pushed him just hard enough to make him fall back on the bed. He didn’t resist her at all, she was too dainty for that, but it was still a bloody stupid thing to do. Sandor had almost accidentally kicked her!

“Stop it, little bird, you’ll hurt yourself!”

“No harm can come to me when you’re around,” she purred. The foolish little bird, she’d never realized how easily he could hurt her.

Sansa crawled above him, her slender legs settling on either sides of his hips. 

“Sansa, stop it,” Sandor told her, his commanding voice coming out a little too broken. “This is not your duty! I want you willing, litt…”

Seven hells, couldn’t she let him finish one sentence? She was touching him, kissing him, arresting his senses with her feminine smell and feather touches, wrapping his mind in a sensual fog. Sansa run her palms over his chest and up to his neck, curling her fingers into his hair as she teased his lips with her tongue. Sandor couldn’t trust himself to move. It felt so fucking good and Sandor had missed the closeness so damn much. He had imagined their kisses every day and night and they had been apart almost a year, meeting only briefly for the Battle of Winter. How could he resist so much sweetness? Even his cock had completely forgotten about all their carefully laid plans. Sansa caressed Sandor’s arms, bringing them above his head. She was doing awful things to Sandor’s determination. She was tenderly stroking his wrists, rubbing her delicious body against his, nipping at his skin. When she ran her tongue around the edge of his ear, an unwilling groan escaped Sandor’s lips.

Sandor had enough. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t resist this. He couldn’t. Sandor moved to roll Sansa onto her back, but instead of getting a much needed relief, he only received a victorious smile from his beautiful wife. Sandor couldn’t move. He had… Sandor looked at his arms. Seven bloody hells. Sansa had put buggering dog collars around his wrists without him noticing. And he wasn’t able to break them. How… How had those blasted things even got into his room? Sansa had planned this, prepared it. She didn’t need Sandor anymore and now she tied him to the wall! What…

When Sandor met Sansa’s gaze again, she was straddling his waist, his own knife in her pale little hand. 

“You’re mine,” she breathed out possessively. 

Seven hells, Sansa wanted to cut his throat!


	16. Chapter 16

“Go on, girl,” Sandor snarled. “Get it over with!”

Sansa smiled. “Not so fast.” She leaned down and trailed kisses along his jawline.

Why was she doing it? Was it meant to be more merciful to cut his throat while kissing him? Did it make it easier for her? Sansa had never been able to kill even a mouse, but she was a queen now, perhaps the capacity to kill had come with the title. Sandor certainly hoped she would be able to finish the job now. It had been hard enough to live for Sandor knowing she didn’t love him, he couldn’t imagine going on knowing she actually hated him.

Sansa put the knife to his heart and he stared deep into her eyes, gritting his teeth. He didn’t understand anything and now he’d never know what had driven her against him. He had hurt her, hadn’t he? He must have hurt her terribly.

But instead of a stab of pain, Sandor felt his shirt fall apart. Sansa had cut through it in several places and Sandor soon lay on the bed with his upper body completely bare. Safe for the dog collars around his wrists, of course.

“What do you think you’re you doing?” he rasped. “Can’t you just do it, quick and simple?”

“Oh, no,” she smiled mischievously. “I have had enough of quick and simple, Sandor. Now I want to enjoy everything.”

“What?”

Sansa ran her hand over his chest and buried her face in his neck, breathing him in. “You’re so handsome,” she whispered, laying the knife down to free her hands for the torture.

Sandor’s eyes widened. He’d been wrong. He’d been so wrong. How could he have believed Sansa would have ever hurt him? She was his sweet little bird. Sandor had been pitying himself so much he had been completely blind to see what was in front of him, he had overheard the meaning behind her words. It was obvious, wasn’t it? In her letters Sansa had told him she couldn’t wait to kiss him. And she did, she really kissed him. She stripped him of his clothes. She tied him to the bed. She told him he was handsome. It was obvious, it was perfectly obvious now. Sansa was under the influence of a vicious spell!

Something had happened. Qyburn or some other fucker had put a curse on Sansa as a revenge to Sandor. Sandor had killed so many monsters he should have expected this, he should have immediately noticed that Sansa wasn’t herself. His sweet little bird wasn’t able to kill, much less torture anyone. Sandor had been utterly stupid and now he was trapped. What could he do about it? As much as he tried, he couldn’t break the collars, he couldn’t kick his wife and risk hurting her, either. Screaming wouldn’t help, because the walls and doors were too thick and there were no guards anywhere near his room. Sandor looked up at the collars. He would be able to unbuckle them if he had enough time. He would. He just had to distract her for long enugh.

“Sansa…”

She was kissing his neck softly, making her way to his ear. “Do you know how much I’ve missed your voice?” she murmured. “Nobody has a voice like you. Nobody says my name like you.” She curled her hand around his jaw, turning his head to the side. “You have no idea how much I love listening to you.”

“Sansa, please…” Sandor tried to buy some time. When she took his earlobe into her mouth and sucked gently, Sandor’s gasp turned into a moan. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair at all. “Sansa, you don’t want to do this!” He had met many revived corpses, he had slain a witch and a creepy maester, he had fought alongside direwolves and dragons, but he still didn’t know how to break a spell.

“No, I want to do much more than that,” Sansa purred sensually. 

The Red Witch. Qyburn would have thought of something else, he’d have made Stranger bite his head off, he wouldn’t have done something like this. This had to Melisandre, it had to be her doing. Sansa had begun to behave strangely immediately after the Battle of Winter, when Sandor’s sword stopped with all the buggering fire spitting. The Red Witch had put a spell on his sword and when it failed to break Sandor, the spell turned to his wife. That was why the tone of Sansa’s letters had changed so much. That was why she behaved like this.

“Sansa, why don’t you release me? We can talk about this.”

Sansa pouted. “No. Enough woofing, Sandor, now I want to taste you.”

“What?” Sandor blinked. “Sansa, try to concentrate. Look at me. You don’t really want to do this.”

“You do not want me, my lord?” she asked, concerned.

“Seven bloody hells, of course I want you, girl. But…” 

Sansa bent her head to the juncture of Sandor‘s neck and shoulder and bit down. An embarrassing moan escaped Sandor’s lips, his cock twitching appreciatively. Sandor desperately tried to stay still, he couldn’t let Sansa know how well her torture worked. But Sandor’s treacherous body eagerly responded to her nearness, wanting more. Sansa’s small hands kept caressing his torso and Sandor wished her caresses weren’t quite so feather light. He wanted her to bite him again, bite him hard and rake her fingernails over his skin. He wanted…. No, he wanted to be calm. He was calm. He was very calm.

“No more buts,” Sansa commanded. “Do not worry, Sandor, I have figured it all out. The gods want us to love each other, trust me,” she said, smiling proudly at her own cleverness. “I prayed and they made me realize it.” 

Sandor didn’t understand her one bit, he could only hear the word love. She had never said that word in regards to him, why did it have to be witchcraft? Sandor wished he could kill the Red Witch all over again.

“Seven hells, Sansa, release me!”

“No,” she responded. “You never let me touch you. And I want to touch you, Sandor. I want to touch you everywhere.”

How could he have overlooked the change in her? No woman would have said such things unless she was paid for it, or under a spell. Sandor tried to free his hands, flexing his muscles, but it was all in vain.

“You’re so strong,” Sansa hummed against his skin. “I love your strength. The strength of your mind… the strength of your body…” Her hands stopped roaming over his body and they brushed over his armpits instead. She smoothed her thumbs along his flexed arms and trailed sweet little kisses there, too. Sandor could smell her fragrant hair and feel the warmth of her skin.

“Sansa,” Sandor groaned helplessly. She was seeing, touching his scars and she even seemed to enjoy the contact. How he had dreamed of Sansa loving his looks, desiring him, how he had hoped it could be true. She desired him now, but it was all just an illusion, the cruellest trick of all. Sansa should have just cut his throat. The Red Witch had failed in torturing Sandor with fire, but now he was burning from within.

Sandor used the opportunity to start unbuckling the dog collars without her noticing. But when Sansa ran her tongue over his nipple and pulled it between her teeth, Sandor struggled to keep his wits about him, stirring under her ministrations. Why was Sansa doing this to him? Sandor didn’t have soft skin like her and his chest was all hard muscle, scars and hair. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to touch something like that. Who would? Only someone under a spell, of course. He knew that, he knew it. But it felt so damn good, he didn’t want to think, he just wanted more of this. His wife was so damn beautiful and she was trailing kisses down his stomach, making Sandor’s muscles quiver under her lips. Seven hells, didn’t she see all the scars? His body was so hideous, it was horrible to know she could see it in its full ugliness.

Sansa tugged at his breeches for a moment, but then she grabbed the knife. Sandor’s eyes widened. What… what exactly did she want to cut? Sandor starred at her in horror as she cut through his breeches and pulled them down. When she took them off, she lay the knife down again, kissing Sandor’s knees and inner thighs. And then her hand, her delicate small hand cupped his balls. Seven… seven…. What?! 

“Sansa, you don’t… you don’t…” 

When she touched her lips to his cock, Sandor knew he had lost. His cock should have been too tired to get any more ideas, but that damn thing was instead all too ready for her. And Sansa licked it, lavished his swollen shaft with kisses. It was scary. It was incredible. And Sansa was too bloody gentle. Sandor wanted to beg her to add more pressure, but then his throat constricted and he couldn't do anything. This. This was going to be his death.

“So beautiful,” Sansa breathed against his throbbing length. “So hard.” 

Sandor made a desperate small sound. He was helpless beneath her and she knew it. He could kill giant wights and beasts, but how was he supposed to fight Sansa’s light caresses? Sansa even tried to take his cock into her sweet little mouth. She was so eager, so determined as she struggled to take him in. She was so heartbreakingly adorable when she finally managed to slip the entire head of his cock into her mouth and she happily hummed in victory. She was perfect. Sandor couldn’t even breathe at the sight and he gave up on trying. Sansa was looking at him with her trusting eyes wide open, her mouth full of his cock. Was this really just a trick? Her eyes were so loving, so kind. There was no lie, no shadow in them, just devotion and sweet desire. She flicked her tongue against his sensitized flesh and when she sucked the tip between her lush lips, Sandor thought he might just die from the pleasure.

“Sansa… Sansa… what do you mean by this…” he managed to ask in a broken voice he didn’t even recognize. “What do you want?”

She let go of his cock with a wonderful wet sound. 

She licked her lips and brought her face to his. “I want you, Sandor. You,” she said as if it was the most natural thing.

“Sansa…” Sandor’s eyes welled up with tears. Sansa kissed him, tenderly stroking his cheek. Then she stood up and holding his gaze, she pulled the shift over her head. Sandor opened his mouth, but there was no sound. He stared at the beauty in front of him, still disbelieving that this could indeed be his wife and mother of his children. She was… Sansa. His Sansa.

She kissed him, kissed him all over his ugly face. “I love everything about you, Sandor, and I want all of it.” 

“San… San…” he struggled to find his voice. “Why tie me up then?”

She moved to straddle his hips, rocking back and forth on him, rubbing her glorious wet cunt against his cock. “You never let me touch you,” she explained.

“Sansa,” Sandor groaned. “I’m so ugly…” 

She frowned at him. “Don’t say that,” she scolded him. “Don’t ever say that.” Sansa’s breathing hitched as she guided his cock into her moist cunt. 

“But... Don’t you see the scars, girl?” Sandor asked, trembling.

“Yes,” her slender fingers smoothed over the scars on his stomach. “I love them, too. It pains what you had to suffer, Sandor, but your scars speak of your strength, you resilience.”

Sandor didn’t have anything to say to that. He watched in fascination as Sansa sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch into her silken heat. Her thighs were tensed and her features sometimes contorted in pain, but once his full length was buried inside her, Sansa looked around with great pride on her face as if waiting for applause.

“What’s changed Sansa? I don’t understand it, I just don’t understand,” he whispered, not daring to hope.

Sansa moved her hips slightly and moaned. But she wasn’t moving enough! Such movement offered Sandor no relief, the squeezing tightness doing nothing else but torment Sandor further. Sandor idly wondered whether his cock would fall off now. His wife certainly seemed blissfully unaware of Sandor’s suffering.

“I saw you,” she said breathlessly. “I saw how strong you are all by yourself. Without magic, without dragons or blessings. I saw you. I saw your fear, Sandor, and I saw you fighting despite it all," she smiled adoringly. "And I saw myself among my family’s tombs. I don’t want to waste any time, Sandor. I want you.”

“Sansa…” he swallowed. “You mean it?”

She moved a tiny little bit more, but still not enough. “I do,” she moaned again, her sweet cunt clenching around him. “I do.”

She did. She meant it. And this time, Sandor believed. It was real. It was no witchcraft, no curse. His beautiful wife meant it. She meant it.

“I touched myself, you know?” she remembered, blushing prettily. “I touched myself thinking of you.”

“You… you did?”

She nodded, rocking her hips ever so slightly. She brought her hand between her legs, touching herself there. Why was she doing that? She looked absolutely breath-taking like this. Her wonderful breasts had got bigger after children and they were bouncing above Sandor irresistibly, making his mouth water. They were so close and so unreachable. Sansa’s hair was framing her captivating face and body, cascading down onto Sandor’s stomach. Her face was glowing with pleasure, pleasure she was drawing from him, from his body. But Sandor was suddenly ridiculously jealous of her hand. He wanted to be the one touching her there. He wanted to be the one making her moan.

“Sansa, release me,” he commanded sternly.

“No.”

“Sansa, I will touch you however you want. Just release me, please.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, you won’t let me touch you.”

“I will, I will, I promise. You can touch me wherever you want, just…” his jaw tightened. “Just release me, girl. Now.”

She bit her lip, considering it. Sansa was clearly struggling and her movements were far too slow and hesitant for Sandor, he needed more, much more than that. He’d had enough of being patient. He lifted his hips off the bed and thrust up deep into his wife, making Sansa moan beautifully in pleasure mixed with shock. That was better, much better. He drove hard into her, pounding into her with savage intensity that made her cry out more and more. She felt so fucking good. 

But Sansa put her small hands on his chest and lifted herself off him, leaving his desperate cock all alone and leaking.

“No!” Sandor roared. “No! Sansa, stop it!”

“I just did,” she grinned at him wickedly. He was really a bad influence on her. “Will you behave now?”

“No,” Sandor finally managed to unbuckle the collars and freed himself, flipping his wife over, growling like a rabid dog. “Never,” he nipped at her slender neck, grabbing handfuls of her silky hair.

“Sandor!” Sansa squeaked and giggled in surprise.

Sandor ran his hands over her delectable body in frantic caresses, feeling like a suffocating man finally getting his first full breath of air. “Let me make love to you, Sansa,” he devoured her sweet lips, enjoying the feel of her small frame under him. “Let me love you.”

She blushed and hugged him to her, the sweet gesture telling him all he needed to know.

Sandor smiled and slowly slipped back into her warmth. She was his after all. She was his. And now he could cherish her forever.

 

Sansa loved feeling Sandor move inside her, but this time he surprised her with his gentleness. He had previously always dug his fingers too hard into her skin, slammed his rigid manhood too forcefully into her and it had all been a little too painful. Now he took his time and his calloused thumb brushed over her sensitive flesh with experimental lightness. Sansa could freely trace shapes over his muscles with her fingertips, she could put her hand on his chest and feel the rapid thud of his heart. He let her touch even his scars. Sansa enjoyed all his guttural groans and grunts, the masculine smell of him, the warmth of his body, the feel of him. Sansa couldn’t get enough of it. She was filled by him, body and soul.

But Sandor was still Sandor and soon he thrust into her so hard she had to hold onto him tightly. Now it were her nails digging into his back. She just hoped she wasn’t hurting him. As far as she was concerned, she loved being stretched by him beyond belief. He was so virile, so strong. She wanted to have a bit of his strength all for herself. Sandor was quick to learn, he didn’t need much to realise what Sansa needed. Actually, he somehow understood it better than she did and soon Sansa found herself sighing and moaning under him uncontrollably. 

“I am sorry,” she apologized, too embarrassed.

He stopped, raising his eyebrow, confused. “For what?” 

Sansa lowered her lashes. “I… I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“What?” cupped her chin in his palm and forced her to look him in the eyes. “What are you talking about, Sansa?” he kissed her and run his skilled fingers over her cleft, making her moan in the back of her throat. “I want you to sing to me like this. I want all of you, too, Sansa,” he whispered to her ear, his breath hot on her skin.

That was all Sansa needed to hear. It was true, wasn’t it? She’d been right. She could be herself with her lord husband, she could enjoy herself freely. They were kissing and touching, moving together in perfect understanding. Sandor was filling her with increased urgency. He was inside her and outside, he was everywhere. He loved her. He cherished her. He possessed her. And somehow he managed to stop everything around them. There was nothing, only them. Only their love. But Sansa’s body couldn’t even take so much love. 

“No, no, stop!” she got suddenly afraid of the strange feeling, pushing her husband away. What was happening to her?

“What is it, little bird?” Sandor asked worriedly. One his hand was buried in her hair, holding her head, the other still stroking her between her legs.

It was too much. Too much. She would die, wouldn’t she? She would… Pleasure burst through her whole body. What was this? What…? Her body shook, trembled and arched. She couldn’t. She couldn’t control herself at all. She cried out, clenched around her husband, clinging to him. 

“Sansa,” he hissed. “Sansa,” he let out a pained groan.

He was saying something to her, but she didn’t listen. He thrust into her once more before his entire body tightened and he arched back with a gruelling moan. Sandor was even louder than usual, he was shuddering in her arms, his face streaked with tears, but it all only added to the sensations crashing through her body. Sansa felt a hot rush of his seed erupt inside her and she was overwhelmed by tenderness and adoration. She would die from sheer love for him, but she didn’t mind. She was in heaven.

Before the blissful feeling faded away completely, Sandor let out one more pained groan and suddenly collapsed onto Sansa, unexpectedly robbing her of breath. The full weight of his enormous body was pinning her to the bed, his manhood still inside her. Had he fainted? It was really hard for Sansa to breathe, but Sandor lay like that for a long time, unmoving. Sansa’s heart was swelling with love for him, she wanted more hugging and kissing and she wanted him to tell her again now how divine she looked and what he felt for her. He hadn’t said it to her for so long, she wanted to hear it. "Sandor?" Sansa poked the huge man in the shoulder, but he didn’t move. She blushingly stroked his firm bottom and he didn't move. Had he really fainted? He didn’t seem to be unwell, so Sansa used the time to run her hands over his powerful body. She had such a strong husband, nobody could defeat him. So strong. Just when she wanted to explore more of his skin, he lifted his head.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed, rolling to the side, pulling her to him. 

They lay in silence for a long, long time. His eyes were closed and he was obviously asleep. Sansa kissed him softly.

“I love you, Sandor,” she whispered to him.

His eyes shot open immediately. He had such beautiful, soulful eyes. There was usually at least a little bit of pain in them, but not today. Not now.

“Little bird?” he said in a hoarse voice.

“I love you,” she repeated, smiling.

Sandor’s half-burnt lips trembled and his eyes again glistened with unshed tears. He sniffled shortly and pressed his mouth to hers, pouring all his love for her into one long, long kiss. He brushed his fingers through her hair, his whole face glowing with childlike wonder. He stroked her hair and nuzzled his face against her cheek, embracing her possessively. Sandor didn’t speak, he just held her close to him. And he gave her one more kiss. Just a little one. A kiss of gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for making it this far! I hope you have enjoyed reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it.  
> I'm very grateful to everyone who left kudos and especially to those of you who stuck with me for several months, left comments on this little story or even mentioned it on tumblr, because it’s you who truly kept me motivated. I'm not sure I would have been able to finish this without you and it would have certainly taken much much longer. What started out as an experiment to practise my English turned out to be a great therapy for me during stressful times. And you were so amazing I don’t want to go away anytime soon. Thanks a lot!


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